


The American Bachelor

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, florist!Jared, president!Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen Ackles is the first openly gay president, but that's the least of his worries. He's battling the press on his continued international trips to keep the peace, he has a 12-year-old to raise on his own, and he's trying to make something happen with the hot florist he just met.</p><p>Jared Padalecki, on the other hand, is trying to not go insane at the prospect that the country's most eligible bachelor, and the world's most powerful man, is trying to woo him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The American Bachelor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [spn_cinema challenge](http://spn-cinema.livejournal.com/), but totally failed to post on time. Based on [The American President](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112346/).
> 
> Big thanks to [kelleigh](http://kelleigh.livejournal.com) for the beta!

  


 

 _“And despite President Ackles’ week-long tour of Moscow, President Putin refused to meet with him. Let’s open up discussion on this situation. To my left, we have Jim Nichols, senior political correspondent for_ Washington on the Record _. Jim, what does this incident say about the American President?”_

_“Scott, we have to remember that President Ackles has been pretty public in his criticism over Putin’s position in the Black Sea. I don’t think it says anything more about President Ackles more than he’s got Putin’s number, and Putin isn’t going to make time for his naysayers.”_

_“Fair enough, Jim. Now, on my right is Sarah Mason, producer of the Cole Hart show on Conservative Talk Radio. Your thoughts?”_

_“I really wish President Ackles would stick to the issues here at home that are constantly plaguing his presidency. There is no reason for him to go abroad on a month-long vacation then whine that Putin won’t see him. It’s like he didn’t get into Disneyland.”_

_“Jim, what do you think?”_

_“I think that’s a ridiculous statement, Scott. At no time did President Ackles or the White House say that they were disappoint—”_

_“Did you really expect Putin to sit down for tea and cookies? I mean, did you?”_

_“Certainly not. But it’s hardly fair to blame that on Ackles. He still sat down with the Prime Minister.”_

_“Right. Like Medvedev isn’t doing more than showing Ackles borscht and vodka. The whole trip was a waste of time, not to mention tax payer dollars, and here you want to add more time and money onto his vacation.”_

“Turn it off,” Jensen says as he whisks by the bank of TVs lining the hallway to the communications den. 

All are six are on, all feature Sunday morning news and talk shows, yet only one has the volume up. Unfortunately it’s set to _Split Decision with Scott Maynard_ , and Jensen wants to pull at the man’s face for such a hack show that claims it presents both sides of each coin. Every Sunday, it’s all the same: _What did President Ackles do this week? Now let the dogs fight over it._

“I said _turn it off!_ ” he barks as he steps into his Communications Director’s office. He pauses just inside to listen for the distinct _click_ of the set being turned off before he smiles and shuts the door so it’s just him and Katie Cassidy, the tough-as-nails blonde who has stood beside him since the early primaries in Iowa. Right now, she’s leaning back in her chair, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, bare feet up on the desk, and a nail file in hand.

“Uh, oh,” she says into the phone. “This seems important.”

“ _Seems_?” Jensen asks with a bit of heat.

“I should probably let you go,” she says into the receiver.

“Yeah, probably.”

Katie puts the phone down then rises to attention behind her desk. 

Jensen cringes. “Since when do you not wear shoes around here? This isn’t a laundromat.”

She slips into heels and now stands tall enough to look him in the eye.

He sighs. “Okay, take ‘em off.”

“Yes, sir,” she says with the kind of annoyance that still conveys lingering fondness built upon years of working together. “Do people really go barefoot in laundromats?”

“I’ve seen a few.”

“Since when? Doesn’t the Navy do your whites in the Atlantic?” She pauses and makes it a point to stare at his current outfit consisting of the presidential navy blue windbreaker pants with a red line down the outer seams, white v-neck tee, and a matching windbreaker jacket, zipper open. “Is today not laundry day? That looks like laundry day.”

Jensen rolls his eyes, yet chuckles as he lets the jokes relieve the tension that has been bringing him down since they landed four hours ago. A short nap did little to settle him after a long three weeks in Europe. “Real cute, Katherine. I’m going for a run.”

“Do you have your knee pads?”

“That was one time,” he argues.

“And a helmet? With the chin strap?” Katie playfully frowns. 

“One time!”

“Your chin looked so bad … you have no idea how long the press room ripped on you.”

Jensen narrows his eyes. “They what?”

“They sent flowers and get well cards,” she immediately corrects while falling back into her chair with a comfortable sprawl. 

He knows it’s a lie, because the press room often enjoys picking at any frayed seam in his life—political and personal. So he lets the conversation drop and moseys back to another issue on his agenda. “Speaking of flowers, I need to get Nola something.”

“I think Felicia already sent her roses. Pink!”

Jensen groans, tipping his head back while clenching his hands into fists. Felicia hasn’t been around long enough to learn the nuances of the White House and the First Family, but as his new assistant, he hoped she’d be well experienced in tip-toeing through the delicate situation of getting his daughter flowers after she was left mostly alone (sans servers and her bodyguard) while he took off across the Atlantic.

“No, no, no,” he whines. “I said _no_ roses. Nola hates roses. And pink.”

“Nola is twelve. Every twelve-year-old loves roses and pink.”

“Not Nola,” he insists. “Not now.”

“Why ‘not now’?”

“Because now she’s going through a phase. Because now she is into painting her nails navy blue and her eyes forest green, and she’s contemplating dying her hair black.”

“Sounds more like she’s in mourning.” Katie sits up and crosses her arms on top of her desk. “Alright, then tell Felicia to get something else.”

Jensen quickly shakes his head. “She’s been with me for one week and already messed up flowers.”

“She’s been here for over a month and—”

“And I was gone for three weeks,” he grumbles.

“That’s still a month for her.”

“It was only a week for me!” Suddenly he sighs and runs a hand over his head. “Jesus, since when are flowers a national emergency?”

“I don’t know, sir,” she replies calmly yet with a hint of worry and esteem. “Kind of seems like they’re all national emergencies these days.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” He tugs at the back of the arm chair facing her desk and asks, “You mind?”

“Do I mind if the leader of the free world pops a squat in my office? Oh you bet your white ass I do.”

Jensen glares at her, but barely means it because she then smiles, and he takes the seat with a withered exhale. “Remember when it was all about making America beautiful and sustainable?”

“Barely,” she admits with a soft smile. “I think that was long before Fox stated counting everyday out of the Oval as vacation or Sarah Mason insisted you drop the minimum wage to even out the lower class and welfare.”

He sits forward quickly, hands moving out as he talks. “That woman – she said I was complaining about not seeing Putin as if I was missing out on Disneyland.”

“Well, I’ve heard Gorky Park sucks. No wonder you wanted to see Mickey after visiting the world’s saddest amusement park.”

“It’s a nice green space now,” he offers then gets back to complaining. “But that’s not my problem. My problem is when I have to worry about being the bad guy because some jackass in Russia refused to meet with me. How is it not on him?”

“Because you’re the President of the United States. You’re always the bad guy.”

Sadly, he accepts that, knows it deep down in his heart, even when it once bled red, white, and blue for the entire nation. That was long before him swearing on a Bible meant he was at the mercy of every voice across the globe. 

Jensen stands and brushes at the edges of his jacket to right it. “Yeah, even with my own daughter.”

“She’s that mad about the roses?”

“She’s mad about the _pink_.” As he opens her office door, he spots Welling and Hodge, two of his bodyguards. “So, I’m going to go take a run with my two most physically fit agents who are going to jog alongside me and make me look good, right boys?”

“Sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jensen smiles at them then grins goofily at Katie. “I feel like a four-star general when they do that.”

“Just with a dinkier costume.”

He shakes his head as he moves out of her office. Over his shoulder, he calls out, “Do something about Mason and the Russia rhetoric. I’m tired of getting pounded every Sunday morning.”

There’s a snort from one of the agents and he doesn’t bother figuring out which one it is. 

Adding insult to injury, Katie says, “Maybe you should take naps between poundings.” When he narrows his eyes, she adds, “You were asking for it.” 

“You know,” he declares with an air of authority, “it’s not like I’m the first gay man to live in the White House.”

“You’re certainly the first one to be out,” is said from his left and when he turns, he sees Felicia. His quirky red-headed assistant bends her shoulders in and bites her lower lip before standing a bit straighter and adding, “Sir.”

“Noted,” he says then turns to his agents. Welling hands Jensen his favorite worn-out Cowboys baseball cap. The edges are fraying, but it still fits like a soft sweater. He tugs the hat down into place and nods at the agents. “You guys ready for a run?”

“Sir?” Felicia calls out, “don’t forget your pads.”

“It was one time!” he shouts as he’s walking away.

“A dozen purple pansies for our in-house pansy,” Jared announces as he pushes through the swinging doors and into the back of the florist shop.

“I’m not a pansy,” Danneel grumbles then kicks the side of his leg. They’re off to the side of the open window between the front counter area and the back of the house, which is where most of the best floral creations are crafted by Danneel. Instead of working, however, she is trying her best to sneak peeks into the front of the shop and watch the tall, dark, and handsome man who’s been slowly strolling through the shop for the last twenty minutes. 

Jared watches her watch the front, specifically the man with the smooth, dark skin, and she doesn’t flinch. She just mechanically clips the stems of the pansies and sets them into a vase. With her eyes still glued to the man who is obviously taking a break from a run given his netted shorts and a well-fitted long-sleeve t-shirt, Jared watches in amazement as she fluffs the arrangement so the white stocks are perfectly set behind the pansies and the yellow daffodils.

It’s not quite a mix he’d jump for, but she’s making it work, especially with the bold white backdrop.

Still, he snaps his fingers in front of her face and whistles. “Hello! Earth to Danni!”

“I’m here. I’m on Earth,” she insists, now focused on the flowers she’s nudging this way and that. “But where the hell did _he_ come from?”

“From out on the sidewalk,” he offers. “Beyond that, who really knows?”

“I wanna know,” she says on a breathy sigh.

“Why do you wanna know?” he teases.

“Because …” She flushes then waves towards the front of the store. “I mean, look at those legs and that ass.”

“Then use your legs to get your ass out there and find out!”

“No!” she shouts with panic then ducks down behind the counter so no one can see her through the window. 

Their customers, including the hot guy Danneel’s interested in, and Jared’s Aunt Samantha can all see Jared, of course, and he simply offers an easy smile and wave. 

“Jared,” Aunt Sam reprimands from the cash register, her short blond bob swaying along with her dangly, silver earrings. “What’re you doing to poor Danni?”

“I’m not doing anything. She’s the one who’s making googly eyes at—OW!” he harps when Danneel pinches his calf muscle. Trying to recover, he offers a miserable smile to everyone in the shop. “I’m okay, just a rose thorn.”

Then he frowns when he realizes Danneel’s beloved is watching him back, and quite intently. It lasts for a few uncomfortable moments until the man turns away and goes back to carefully searching the floral fridge along the long wall. Jared surveys the area and frowns. 

“I don’t think he’s here to shop,” he mumbles and slowly tugs Danneel up to stand. They both keep an eye on the guy and when they spot him slowly, and quite meticulously, looking up at the corner and along the line of the ceiling, they both make a curious noise.

Jared heads right through the swinging doors and nudges his Aunt Sam, the shop’s long-time owner, away from the register. He’s approximately ninety-nine percent sure that they’re about to get robbed and he’s not going to let his aunt take the brunt of it. 

“What can I help you with?” Jared calls out with a tight voice, meaning business.

The guy faces Jared while observing the shop. “Is there anyone else here?”

Faintly, there’s a tiny _meep_ from the back and Jared hopes Danneel has gone out the backdoor and forgotten dreams of sunny vacations in bathing suits with this guy showing off all of his impressive muscle … and then Jared mentally slaps himself for trailing off. “What can I help you with?” he repeats.

The man glances at the window in the back, and Jared does as well. They both spot Danneel trying to get a peek of what’s happening, and Jared scowls when the guy smiles. But then Jared is truly confused when the guy presses his index finger to his ear and speaks into his wrist.

“All clear for the Big Easy.”

Jared’s mind immediately drifts off to fantastical drama ranging from the whole place being shot up with gunfire to ninjas streaming in through the windows and kickboxing their way through the shop.

None of that happens. 

The only thing that _does_ happen is the front door opens and two more men enter. They’re both tall, yet no taller than Jared, and he thinks he can take them. One is dressed much like the strange man Jared has been eying for the last five minutes, and the other is in dark breakaway pants and a white tee that’s gone nearly translucent with patches of sweat across the chest and over the shoulders. There’s a hat covering the top of his face, but when he steps up to the counter and looks Jared right in the eyes, Jared loses all cognitive and respiratory capabilities.

He swears he’s staring at one of the most handsome men he’s ever seen in the flesh, even when the guy’s eyes are a bit sunken in, cheekbones a bit too striking as if he hasn’t eaten well in a long time, and fresh sweat breaking out down the length of his neck. That last part actually makes him even more attractive, and Jared adjusts his stance and just narrowly avoids licking his lips. 

“What can I do you for?” Jared asks in a rumbly, shaky voice. He clears his throat and chuckles a little. “What can I do _for_ you?”

The guy in the hat offers a small smile as his two companions split up up the space with one standing near the swinging doors and the other near the front door. Jared imagines this guy is in the mob or some other high-end criminal organization, and these two are granting him protection at the moment. It’s scary to consider, though Jared’s not sure where they would keep guns, or how many they could carry in work-out clothes, but still, Jared’s a bit freaked.

After a breath, Jared clears all worry, because the guy is still hot as hell.

“Is everything okay?” Jared asks with a nervous smile while looking between the bodyguards. 

“Oh, them?” the guy waves them off and aims a casual and very, very smooth smile Jared’s way. “They’re just a bit tense after running 10K.”

Jared chuckles, and then there’s a nearly audible ding in the back of his mind. Pictures slot into place – headshots, press pictures, even video from debates – and Jared realizes the goombahs hanging in the shop are actually Secret Service and he’s standing face-to-face with the President of the Goddamn United States.

“Oh, holy shit,” Jared mutters.

Smoothly the President—one Jensen Ackles, widowed father of one pre-teen, and a right-winger’s nightmare for being out and proud and enacting some of the nation’s best partner equality standards—points towards the cooler full of floral arrangements and seems calm as hell as he asks for help.

The President is a great hero to the gay community and even to those who are out yet not overly active like Jared. Better yet, he’s pretty much the best looking president this country has ever seen, with casual yet never equal comparisons to Kennedy.

Jared fails to register most of what is being said, but then Danneel rushes through the swinging doors and grins to the room, even when they all flinch at her quick appearance. 

“Hi! I’m Danneel and this is Jared and Aunt Sam!” she brightly declares. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” As she puts her hand out intending to shake the President’s hand, the agents take two quick steps forward.

“Chill out,” Jared says between gritted teeth then tries to ease the tension. “Sorry. Danni’s my best friend and one of our best florists. Aunt Sam owns the shop, and I hang around full-time to carry big packages.” After a moment, he realizes how stupid it all sounds and he adds, “Among other things.”

Aunt Sam steps forward while nudging Jared to the side with a playful smile. “Don’t mind him. He’s always been a li’l loose at the mouth, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Aunt Sam!” he admonishes, praying that he’s the only one who’s got a wandering mind at that image. She must realize her mistake because she gets back behind the counter and starts to bow her head, removing herself from the conversation. “What can we do for you?”

He thinks the scene is back to normal, but maybe he’s just really imagining it all, because now the President is walking over to the cooler while talking over his shoulder and asking for Jared’s advice. “—and she’s not into pink. Maybe purple? Or blue? But not like baby, pastely blues, you know?”

Jared snaps back to attention and moves around the counter to meet up with the President at the cooler. “Yes, of course. We have plenty to choose from. Many, many flowers far from the pink family. How about yellow roses?”

“No roses,” the President says sternly, and Jared takes it as a direct hit. As if he was standing in Congress and being attacked for bringing the wrong bit of pork belly fat to a bill. The President also seems to notice the tone of his voice because he suddenly lowers it and tries to smile. “She’s really not about roses. Hasn’t been in ages. She’s more of a … casual user of feminine products.”

Jared suddenly relives the seventh grade when Danneel cried in his bedroom over her first period. And he had immediately asked her to sit somewhere else. “Feminine products?”

“Yeah, like make-up, eye shadow, nail polish. She likes to paint her nails, but she’s now in this weird stage where it’s all black, blue, and gunmetal.”

“I don’t like guns,” he says on automatic, for some ungodly reason, then mentally punches himself in the face. 

“Good,” the President says slowly, “neither do I.”

“I know,” he says with a light laugh, “from Prop 47, to stall gun purchases an extra week and limit production of assault rifles.” 

“That’s right.”

Jared realizes how absurd this whole conversation has gone and just blurts, “Gerbera Daisies are perfect for Nola.” When the President continues to stare, Jared adds, “Your daughter. For your daughter, you should get Gerbera Daisies. They come in royal jewel tones and I think she’d appreciate them more than roses. Roses are super overused. The wide spread of the Gerbera’s petals enhances the deep colors.”

The President watches him for a few long, tense moments then looks at the cooler until he spots the very flowers Jared has just stupidly gone on about. He hums and takes the time to inspect each grouping of the red, blue, purple, and green daisies. “Which color though?”

“What color are her nails now?”

He frowns then admits, “I haven’t seen her in three weeks. The flowers are part of my _surprise, Daddy came home three days early._ ”

“Because of the Putin thing.” Jared sucks in a breath and mentally kicks his own leg. “I think blue or orange would be striking. Not many flowers come in that rich of a color, and at her age, she might enjoy getting something very non-traditional.”

The President smirks at him—like, legitimately smirks as if they’d met a clear decade earlier, long before Jensen Ackles had laid out his political road map to the White House, and as if there was an ice cube’s chance in hell that they could legitimately smile at one another and flirt.

Jared? Well, he kind of melts a little. 

“She’s definitely in the non-traditional phase.”

“Then she’ll definitely love them.” Jared smiles brightly, if not a bit falsely, and points back at the counter where Aunt Sam and Danneel are silently watching. And probably judging. “Well, I’m sure one of these lovely young ladies can ring you up. I have to go drown my ego in the toilet.” He pauses then scowls, mostly at himself. “And I just said that out loud.”

Before more can be said, Jared heads through the swinging doors, only to be stopped by the President calling out to him. “Thank you so much, Jared,” the most handsome American President ever says while holding a few orange Gerbera Daisies in his hand. “I’ll be sure to let you know how Nola likes them.”

Jared barely keeps in hysterical laughter and somehow says, “That would be great, thank you,” before running off to the bathroom to dry heave.

  


 

Jensen stands on the other side of Nola’s closed bedroom door and breathes deeply. He thinks of his long-ago departed first love who’d signed her adoption papers right alongside him, and who left the world a bit too early when his body lost a battle with multiple sclerosis. He doesn’t often feel sad when thinking of Tahmoh, mostly just recalls fond, laughable memories, but he suddenly wonders how Tah would handle the awful pre-teen years that Nola is inflicting upon him.

He also knows that being the most powerful man in the free world isn’t helping her. The whole ‘not being around’, ‘everything else is more important than helping with an algebra test’, and living half his life on Air Force One inhibits much of his fatherly duties.

Still, he clutches the daisies that the nice florist—and terribly great-looking guy—helped him with just an hour ago. He knocks softly then calls through the door, “Nola, honey, you there?”

“No,” she replies grimly.

“Nola, sweetheart, I have the NSA on my side. I have a pretty good feeling you _are_ in there.”

The door slides open a few inches and he sees her hair—now jet black, and when did _that_ happen?—just before he sees her bright green eyes open wide. “You’re such a nerd.”

“That’s President Nerd to you.”

She rolls her eyes and tries to push the door shut, but he’s had practice at this and quickly wedges his foot between it and the door frame. 

“When did you dye your hair?” he asks, ignoring how high and panicked it sounds. “And who said you could?”

Her head pops back into view in the few slim inches of space that he’s kept open with his foot. “Really, Dad? North Korea and Russia stand at the ready to claim random countries and you’re worried about my _hair_?”

Jensen frowns. “I’m always worried about your hair. I’m always worried about you.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. Because you gave me Felicia, and she gave me pink roses.”

The way her voice flips on the last two words tells him more than enough about how much she liked them. Not at all.

“I’ll fire Felicia.”

“No you won’t!” she insists, pulling the door open far enough that he can slide right inside. She sighs and dramatically slouches at the edge of her bad. “You totally won’t.”

“Of course I won’t. Katie and Tim would never allow it.” He steps in front of her, flowers tucked behind his back, and he bows a bit to her level. “So, I have something for you.”

“Is it early entry to Stanford?”

“Never in a million years am I sending you to California.”

“But it’s so pretty,” she whines with her hands lightly slapping at her knees. “And it’s not D.C. or Dallas. I need a city without the letter D.”

“Nola, honey,” he says quietly to gather her attention. “I love you, and I’ve missed you very much, but you will go somewhere more appropriate, like Harvard, or MIT. When you’re ready,” he adds when she opens her mouth. “Because I love you, and your dad and I promised each other that no matter where we ended up, in the White House or an outhouse, that you could go wherever your little heart desired.” She opens her mouth again and he quickly says, “Except Stanford. We both agreed no surfer boys for you.”

She sighs as she falls to her back with her dark hair splayed across the crisp pink linens she thought were adorable when she was nine and they first set up her room. “No fair.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned as the President of the United States, it’s that life ain’t fair.”

“But you can make it _more_ fair, right?”

“I’m trying.”

She finally smiles—just a tiny tilt of the side of her mouth, but he’ll take it. “What is my surprise?”

“Well, it was going to be me, back home three days early …”

Nola frowns. “That’s a terrible surprise.”

“I knew you’d say that,” he says to himself then puts the flowers between them, on display and aimed right towards her. As she merely stares at them, he says, “I was assured that colors this rich were out of the ordinary and non-traditional. And not pink.”

“Definitely not pink,” she replies with a bit of awe. 

“No pink whatsoever.”

“I love them!” Nola cries as she rips them right out of his hands, and he’s now doubly glad he didn’t spend even half a second considering roses. No matter what color the petals, thorns are a bitch. “They’re super cool!”

“Cool?”

She shrugs and just barely smiles. Again, he’ll take what he can get at this point. “And a little bit pretty, I guess.”

Jensen moves to the side of the bed, leans down, and kisses her forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little bit pretty, too.”

He spends half an hour catching up with Nola, which is far too long for his schedule and yet nowhere near long enough to devote to his daughter. Still, it’s longer than he usually gets following trips like the one from which he’s just returned, and Nola seems happy enough with the flowers and the thirty-some minutes of cuddling on her bed as she talks about school and all the cool computer games Felicia has been showing her. 

He nods at Welling, who’s now in the atypical black suit and tie, once he’s back in the hallway. “Keep an eye on Felicia’s computer. And Nola’s. She said something about 1248 being totally addictive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want my daughter dealing with addiction at age 12.”

“It’s an app, sir.”

“Like an appetizer?” he asks with his brows furrowed. Then he chuckles when Welling seems overly surprised. “Kidding! I know what an app is. I’m not that lost in the daily world.”

Once they’re outside and walking around the courtyard towards the Oval Office, they’re joined by Tim Omundson, Jensen’s chief of staff. Tim’s bushy, salt-and-pepper beard certainly adds an air of authority and wisdom and, not for the first time, Jensen wonders if he should’ve been pushing Tim up to the podium instead on that cloudy evening during the Democratic Convention. Tim certainly has a better handle on getting shit done up on the Hill; then again, that’s exactly who a President needs at his right side.

Tim and Rich – or Richard Speight Jr., when he’s in a particularly tight-assed mood – had certainly spun him a magical dialogue to communicate with the American people rather than _at_ them, and he owes them dearly for putting him on the map. Yet he still feels his spine stiffen whenever Tim or Rich head his way, because it’s likely with bad news.

“What do we got?” Jensen asks in his authoritative, Presidential voice as they all turn smoothly at the door that Welling holds open into the Oval Office. 

“Aside from your Sunday poundings?”

Jensen pauses at the question as he’s settling into his desk chair, and lifts an eyebrow. 

“Mason is still going on about your inability to cajole national leaders to break bread, Fox News’ Vacation Watch has added 21.5 days to their counter, and now US magazine is waxing poetic for the world’s Most Eligible President.”

He pushes a few files across his desk, ones that Tim, Katie, and possibly Felicia have all left for him to skim upon his return. “Yeah, I heard Putin is getting a divorce.”

“Are you interested?”

“Excuse me?” Jensen harps.

Tim might be smiling behind his beard; sometimes Jensen really wishes he’d shave just to make it clear what mood he’s in. “Is that why you were so disappointed that he stood you up?”

“Please grant me a bit more taste than that. I would sooner pick up a guy off the street than _him_.”

Suddenly Welling coughs through a laugh, and Tim and Jensen stare at him. 

“Do you have something to add?” Jensen asks, confusion and annoyance running through him.

“No, sir,” Welling quickly says. He sets himself to the form he had learned at eighteen when he enlisted with the Marines, yet his eyes slant back towards Jensen. 

“I think he does,” Tim says with a delightful glance at Welling. A pompous glance, really.

Jensen groans. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Welling stays quiet until they’re all awkwardly looking at one another. He finally clears his throat and about-faces to Jensen. “Off the record, but you did seem to enjoy speaking with that florist.” After a beat, “Sir.”

“Oh, a florist,” Tim says loftily, dragging his arm through the air. 

“It was nothing,” Jensen insists to Tim then points a firm finger at Welling. “And you saw nothing.”

“Yes, Sir. Absolutely nothing, Sir.”

Jensen grins at Tim. “See? He saw nothing.”

“Now if only you didn’t pay his salary and hold the ability to kick him out of the service.”

“Well, I do and I can, so I guess we’ll just leave the whole situation there.”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. President,” Tim replies with a sly smile.

Two days later, the floral shop is rushing through Easter orders—lilies and orchids and tulips and irises everywhere. Personally Jared would like to slip a few zinnias into the mix, but he figures he’ll save those for some of his fonder customers.

Danneel hurries through the swinging doors, nearly skipping up to Jared’s work station. “Matt’s back.”

“Matt?” he asks idly while fixing an arrangement for St. Leonard’s after-service brunch in the school hall. 

“The trainer?” Danneel reminds him. 

“With the big…” Jared mimes flexing his bicep.

“And the big …”

Jared doesn’t even see what she does, but he frowns all the same. “Really, Danni?” He cups his hands around an orchid and whispers, “In front of the flowers?” She tosses a tiny, broken branch of baby’s breath at him, but he just laughs. “So Matt the personal trainer with the big _ahem_ is back.”

“He is _so_ back.”

“Is he back to buy flowers for his girl?”

“His mom!” she insists. 

“And you’re so sure?”

“Very sure,” she quickly replies with a fast bob of her head.

“Like how you were _so sure_ the super-hot, black Secret Service dude was yours to have on the regular?” He cocks his hip against the table to stare at her, and she mimics his position.

“And he still may be.” Danneel winks. “Time will only tell.”

Jared rolls his eyes and throws the baby’s breath right back at her. “You keep telling yourself that, honey.”

“And that, right there, is why you are eternally single. This ugly pessimism.” She tilts her head at his arrangement and switches the positions of an iris and a daffodil. “That and your ugly pink shirt.”

“Hey, I like my pink shirt!” he defends.

“Then you’re the only one.”

Before he can argue, the phone against the far back wall rings and Danneel practically skips over to answer it, nearly skipping on her way back, too, as she stretches out the long spiral cord of the old-fashioned, mint-green wall phone. 

Jared grumbles at her, and himself, and then at Matt Cohen when Jared turns back to his workspace and spots the guy at the front of the store. Matt looks just as charming as the first day he walked into the store and flirted his way into Danneel’s jeans. And as charming as the five other times he’s done it, all while failing to let it slip that he was already in a relationship. 

Danneel argued at the time that Matt insisted he was on a break, and yet Jared later found out that a batch of fifty roses sent to a Women’s Studies professor at Georgetown were just the first step to a marriage proposal.

“Hey, dum-dum,” Danneel says as she bumps the receiver against his head. “It’s for you.”

She sets the phone at his shoulder so he can squeeze it against his ear while still working. “This is Jared?”

“Yes, hi, Jared,” is said quite officially followed by a rough cough. Then a soft, angry whisper of, “This is so stupid.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yes, sorry,” then a small laugh. “So, Jared, I wanted you to know that my daughter loved the flowers.”

“Oh, okay,” Jared replies lightly, knowing he’s sold dozens of bouquets in the last week alone, and can never be sure who buys them or what they’re for. “I’m glad your daughter liked them …”

“Yeah, she really did.”

After a long silence, Jared bites the bullet. “I’m sorry, but who is this?”

“Oh, it’s Jensen,” he replies easily then clears his throat to speak more professionally. “Or, President Ackles.”

Jared immediately laughs, “Real funny, you prick,” and walks to the far end of the room to hang up.

“What was that?” Danneel asks as she spruces up the baby’s breath in Jared’s arrangement.

“Chad, being a dick.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a dick?” After a sigh, Jared lets on about his embarrassment. “The other night, we went out drinking and I told him how the President was in the shop, and he mocked me the whole time.”

“About what?” 

“About anything? About his dreamy green eyes and tight ass and his little eye crinkles and his—” 

“He has eye crinkles?” Danneel asks with interest.

“Haven’t you ever noticed?”

Now she appears sad to have missed that bit. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he does,” Jared admits then quickly continues on, “and so Chad ripped into me for it in front of everyone at Johnny’s Pub then told them all I was lying about the President even being here.”

“Well, that’s rude.”

“And that’s Chad.”

The phone rings again and Jared walks back to pick it up. On the other end is the same awkward voice, but it’s speaking lower than before. “I think there might be some misunderstanding?”

“There is no misunderstanding here,” Jared says quickly. “Our understanding is that you don’t fuck around while I’m at work. Find someone else to prank call, asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck off.” Jared noisily bangs the receiver into place and stares at Danneel while breathing heavily through his annoyance. He shuts his eyes when the phone rings again.

“Looks like things are escalating,” Danneel says.

“Looks like.” Jared doesn’t open his eyes and he doesn’t answer the phone, just lets it ring on and on with its shrill rattle making him want to grind his teeth. When it continues to go on, he picks up the receiver only to slam it right back down. And yet, a second later, he picks it up again and dials *67 for reverse calling.

He huffs, laughs to himself, and points at Danneel. “Just you wait until I get back at him for this one. I’ll fuck him up so bad at his office that he won’t know—”

“White House,” is said brightly on the other end, and Jared almost drops the phone.

“Wait, what?”

“White House. Felicia Day. Can I help you?”

“What?” he dumbly repeats while staring at Danneel with wide eyes. She’s looking back much the same, yet more in confusion and less in the sheer panic Jared is now experiencing.

“White House. Felicia Day. President Ackles’ Office. Can I help you?” she repeats cordially and with a dedicated cadence.

Jared laughs hysterically, feeling his cheeks flare up, and his fingers barely stay wrapped around the phone receiver. “Uh, yeah, I guess you can. May I speak to the President of the United States?”

Danneel’s eyes widen ever further, if possible, and Jared is sure he’ll black out any second now.

  


 

“Mr. President,” Felicia says through the intercom, but Jensen isn’t up for anything she could bring to him at this moment. 

He sighs, runs a hand over his head, and tosses out the small slip of paper with _Padalilies_ scribbled across it with ten digits. He pushes the intercom button and replies with a wearied, “Yeah?” 

“I have Jared Padalecki on the phone for you.”

Jensen figures this should be quite interesting following the two rough and aborted conversations they just had. He’s embarrassed for sure. Shocked is another term to throw on the pile. But at the end of the day, Jensen is still the President of the United States of America and he can boldly tell someone to go fuck themselves better than anyone else in the free world.

“Send it through,” he authorizes and brings the receiver to his ear just as he clears his throat. “This is President Ackl—”

“I am very, very, very sorry. Very, very, very sorry. I’m not sure there are enough verys or sorrys to toss out right now, but rest assured that I am sending as many as possible to you right now.”

“Hmm, yes, I’m not sure that’s nearly enough.”

Jared quickly goes on to humbly apologize, using as many variations on very – extremely, supremely, unmeasurably, etc. etc. etc. – that he can to express his embarrassment for the untimely misunderstanding and poor assumptions as to who was calling the flower shop. 

“The amazing thing is,” Jensen says confidently, “you just barely gave me a chance to say my name before you trampled right over me.”

“I know, and I’m very sorry, Mr. President, Sir, Your Honor … what do I even call you?”

Jensen smiles at how scattered and humbled, and yet adorable, Jared sounds on the other end. “Jensen. You can call me Jensen.”

“Oh, no I can’t do that,” he insists with a strange laugh. 

“I believe the President of the United States is asking you to do so.”

“Yeah, still,” he huffs, “I feel like I owe you a thousand more sorrys before that’s possible.”

“I’m sure you can make it up to me in time,” Jensen offers, trying to steer this conversation more in the direction he’d been intending when he first asked Welling to – secretly – obtain the name and number for the flower shop they visited last week. 

Jared laughs. “I’m not sure there is enough time to make it up to you. I mean, I can only vote once.”

“Apparently, you’ve never been to Chicago,” Jensen jokes. 

“Only to Texas, is that close?”

Jensen can hear the amusement in Jared’s tone and lets his old accent slip out. “About as close as a rabbit and hound dog.”

“Oh, God,” Jared whispers. Then there’s a fuzzy sound, as if he’s covering the receiver, and Jared’s hushed voice saying, “He’s doing a southern accent. What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to talk to him!” someone bursts out on the other end. “He’s the Goddamn President!”

Jensen pulls the receiver away from his face to stare at it then chuckles as he imagines what kind of melee is breaking out in the back room of _Padalilies_. Likely something as chaotic as when he visited the shop.

Jared clears his throat as he comes back on the line. “So, uh, Mr. President, how can I help you today?”

Right, yes, Jensen had a point in calling Jared. “Well, it’s not actually today that I’m asking after, but perhaps tomorrow or the evening after … Jared, I’d like to have you up to the White House for dinner.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, don’t be sorry anymore, Jared.”

“But you said you want to have me at the White House?”

“Yes,” Jensen says a bit tightly, becoming anxious that Jared hasn’t outright said yes yet. “I’d like to have you up to the White House for dinner, whenever is most convenient for you.”

“You want me? At the White House? For dinner?”

“Yes, Jared, I believe that’s what I said.”

A long quiet stretches and creates a mess of tension in Jensen’s body, with his stomach twisting and his forehead sweating and his toes tapping through the fear that he can’t even manage to get a man to meet him for a meal. There’s a quick war between anger that, as the President, it’s incredibly difficult to manage a date … and then on the other hand, he feels like he’s well past his prime and out of practice. He shouldn’t be flirting and attempting to ask someone out.

At some point, Jensen begins to wonder if Jared has actually hung up, or if the line is suddenly out of service, but then there are noises of someone fiddling with the receiver and a female voice comes on the line.

“Hi, Mr. President? This is Danneel Harris. I was here in the shop when you came in.”

Jensen pulls out his presidential voice and nods as if he’s facing her once again. “Yes, Danneel, hi. I remember. How are you today?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m wonderful, sir,” she gushes then quickly coughs to speak more plainly. “I’m very sorry to report that Jared has just passed out and he—”

He sits forward at his desk with his heart racing double time. “Oh, no, is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine! I think … he is breathing. I can see his giant nostrils moving. _Anyway!_ ,” she shouts to control the conversation. “Jared would definitely love to be had at the White House. For dinner!” she shouts again. “I mean, he’d love to have dinner at the White House, and he can be there tomorrow evening at whatever-time-sharp you would prefer.”

It’s all so awkward, dealing with another woman to wrap up details for a dinner date, but Jensen is still a bit thrilled and scatterbrained at the fact that she’s saying yes for Jared and that this will actually happen.

He may be the American President, but he’s still a man who grew up with a long history of anxiety in his family tree and a shaky disposition towards relationships. Tahmoh basically bossed him into their first date, no matter how much Jensen had already been admiring the Sociology TA before changing his major to economics. 

But now he’s the President, and he thinks he can confidently arrange his own personal life (so long as Katie never gets wind of this). And so, Jensen lets out an awkward, shuffling breath before he calms himself and replies, “Yes, that sounds excellent. How is 7:30? My assistant, Felicia, can send on instructions for arriving at the White House.”

“That sounds great!” Danneel happily chirps back.

“Great, that’s great.” Jensen is smiling and is even more elated that they’re on the phone so that neither Danneel nor Jared can see how dopey he must look at the moment. “Very happy to hear. Thank you, Danneel. Have a good day.”

“You’re welcome, sir. And you, too.”

Just as they’re hanging up, Danneel pops back on the line. 

“Oh, and sir?”

“Yes, Danneel?”

“How about if your assistant also sends along some info on that hot, black agent who was here with you?”

Following twenty-four hours of freaking out, two background checks, three physical pat-downs (one at the drive-in security gate, one at the first entrance, and another just beyond the lobby), and half an hour of standing alone in the Roosevelt Room, Jared still can’t believe that he is inside the West Wing, let alone the White House.

He turns away from the fireplace and again counts the chairs around the sleek, dark-wood conference table. Sixteen, there are sixteen chairs here, just as there were the last six times he counted. 

Jared has quickly run out of time-wasting activities. He checks his watch, and the second hand is flicking forward to tell him it is now 8:05. He’s antsy, sure; both to be here and also to be waiting for thirty-five lonely minutes. But he supposes it’s perfectly normal for the President to be on his own time, and it’s not like Jared is about to ditch the Commander-in-Chief.

He steps up to the American flag set in a stand, fabric hanging neatly as if someone freshly fluffs it every morning. After looking over his shoulder, as if an agent would suddenly appear and stop him from standing so close to the flag, Jared brings his hands up to the edges, but never touches. He now attempts to count all the stars within view between each of the folds. 

That’s when the door swings open. Jared’s hands flail in the air and wind up grabbing onto the flag and tugging it forward as the President comes through the door with an agent right behind him. The President is still talking to someone in the hall, but he does a double-take at Jared who is trying his damnedest to release the flag, and yet also make sure it doesn’t fall over and touch the ground.

“I’ll talk to them at five tomorrow.”

“AM or PM?” a woman asks, and Jared thinks it sounds a lot like the woman who answered the phone yesterday. Felicity or something …

“AM.”

“For reals?”

The President’s eyebrows rise on his forehead. “For reals?” he parrots back.

“For … real … Sir,” she says slowly. 

“Yes, for real,” he replies quickly. “It’ll be almost lunchtime in London, so he’ll squeeze it in between fish ‘n chips and his third Guinness.”

“Guinness is from Ireland, Sir.”

The President nods and smirks a little (and Jared definitely does not swoon at the tiny tilt of his mouth, he’s already busy staying completely still so he won’t disrupt another piece of America’s legacy in this room). “I know that, but he’s also a Neanderthal and will very likely mix the two because he doesn’t know any better.” 

With a quick, “Thank you,” the President closes the door on his assistant and eyes Jared, the flag, and then Jared again. “It appears you were being attacked by the flag.”

“No, sir,” Jared quickly replies. “Not at all, sir,”

“Well, good. Because that’s the original Francis Hopkinson design with the thirteen six-pointed stars in rows, as opposed to Betsy Ross’s circle.”

Jared gulps, but the President gives him an easy smile. 

“I’m kidding. It’s a replica, replaced every few months to avoid fading from the lights,” he says while pointing above them to the inset lighting. He spreads his hands out while turning to his left then right, as if displaying the whole room. Jared barely keeps up with the man’s words because his three-piece navy blue suit fits him impeccably, with a pale blue shirt and charcoal grey tie that complement the walking perfection. “Have you ever been in the Roosevelt Room before?”

Somehow Jared manages to get his wits and words about him to respond. “No, Sir, I haven’t.”

The President steps around the other side of the table at a simple pace. “I said to call me Jensen, and this room was Theodore Roosevelt’s first West Wing Office, and then when he built his own West Wing, this became his common meeting room. In ’69, Nixon named it for both Theodore and Franklin Deleanor, but it continues to be used for staff meetings. Sometimes I wonder how we all fit in here. Fifteen staff and me, every week. Sixteen chairs.”

“I knew that part,” Jared tries to joke, but the President just eyes him before frowning.

“Jared, I have to apologize,” he says quite gravely, “I’m far later than I had planned.”

He shrugs and waves it off, because … it’s the President. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. I had a conference call with the Prime Minister of Belarus to discuss the current issues with Russia and Ukraine and how they—well you certainly don’t care about those things.”

“I rather do care.” Jared clears his throat and nods. “Especially if it leads to World War III.”

The President laughs, and Jared is barely comforted by how warm it makes him to hear such a joyful noise from such a particularly handsome man. “I can’t promise that it won’t, but I’m surely trying to keep it from heading that way.”

“Of course, Sir.”

He pauses, appears annoyed with the tight line of his jaw, and looks Jared right in the eyes before softly insisting, “Jensen.”

Jared thinks carefully on how to respond to that and manages to only faintly squeak out, “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Now he seems a bit businesses-like, or at least bossy. “You’re my guest for dinner tonight. I’m off the clock for until the Balkans have their third cup of coffee, and until then, I’m not the President of anything. I’m Jensen.”

Once the words all settle clearly in his brain, Jared slowly nods and releases a long-kept breath. “Okay. Jensen.”

“That’s right,” he smiles warmly … warm enough that Jared feels warm _all over_. “Now come on this way.”

  


 

After two years in the White House, Jensen has gotten accustomed to the lavishness of each room and the grandness behind every story that the walls keep. So when he takes Jared through the Presidential Study and into the Dining Room, he rather enjoys Jared’s slack-jawed look and the small, toe-dragging steps as he takes in each bit of the rooms until Jensen leads them to their table. It’s spotlighted by the dimmed bulbs throughout the room with just two right above the setting for two, shining brightly upon perfectly placed silverware and china. 

As they both sit, Jensen timing himself so there is no rush or pomp and circumstance to the matter, Jared lets out a low whistle and stretches his fingers out before setting them in his lap. He looks exceptionally nervous, and Jensen tells him so.

“You look exceptionally nervous.”

“I _am_ exceptionally nervous,” Jared quickly replies.

“Why are you nervous?”

“Because I’m sitting in the White House? Because I’m sitting across from the President of the USA? Because I almost tore the American Flag off its staff while I stood in the Roosevelt Room? All of the above?”

Remarkably Jared keeps his cool as he rattles all of that off then casually glances around. Jensen appreciates the man’s ability to remain semi-calm while showing his true—albeit rattled—colors. All while appearing classically cool in a simple sweater, oxford shirt and tie combo with a sports jacket upping the formality. 

Jensen sets a crisp, white napkin in his lap then summons their waiter from the corner of the room. “Well, just forget all that, and remember that you’re sitting across from a former sociology major who bought flowers at your shop for his sometimes-cranky pre-teen.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jared mumbles while looking up at Felipe, who is now standing at their table awaiting their order, “All while being served by the finest French waiter I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Felipe says with a quick bow of his head. “And what can I start you off with this evening?”

“A tranquilizer?”

Jensen snorts a laugh while taking a sip of water, spitting most of it on the table. He wipes his face with the napkin from his lap as Felipe quickly loads his arms with the damp dishware and wineglasses.

“Oh my God,” Jared groans. “I am so sorry.”

“No, no,” Jensen insists once he’s cleaned himself off. “So not your fault. We really needed to break the ice.”

“Oh.”

“In a good way.” Jensen sets his elbows on the table and looks down to the dark spots on the white tablecloth, a dotted circle around the place where his plate had been. “It’s not every day I have dinner with guests.” He glances up to Jared and offers a small smile. “I’m usually scarfing down an English muffin in between calls with the G8 and checking Nola’s homework and NSA briefings.”

Jared’s eyes widen, particularly at the last part. Yet his main concern seems to be: “Just an English muffin?”

“It used to be a banana muffin, but Nola says I have to eat healthier if I’m going to back legislation to eliminate food deserts, and insist that healthy, affordable nutritious should be available to every neighborhood.”

“She’s not totally wrong.”

“I know,” Jensen says with a nod. “She’s a pretty smart kid. And extremely hard to sneak chocolate chip cookies past.”

Jared chuckles. “She is definitely not wrong about you needing to eat better.”

Jensen grins, enjoying how Jared seems to be settling in, and he’s especially happy when Jared steps back to the subject of food deserts and describes his shop’s participation at fresh markets in the Columbia Heights neighborhood.

After a few comments back and forth, Jared goes on with a lengthy story about a particularly loyal customer visiting the market to gather fresh daisies on a Saturday. As he goes on, Felipe fills their wine glasses then recedes into a quiet corner, and Jensen finds himself completely engrossed in the tale, even when he has no clue who Kim Rhodes is or how something like a street market could help raise awareness for autism. 

“… I figure the more the markets have to offer—homemade goods and crafts, flowers, what have you—the more people will support them,” Jared says confidently, almost emphatically. “And the more widespread the efforts can be. And now Kim has set up her own tables to piggyback the market and raise awareness for her group. Plus, having those kids there, having them present and active within the community helps.”

Jensen is holding his wine glass near his mouth, but won’t drink just yet. He’s a bit mesmerized by the man across the table who got into a fight with a flag earlier and is now stating a grand position. “And they’re just making gift baskets,” Jensen says quietly, still staring at Jared.

“They’re just making gift baskets,” Jared repeats before managing to make use of the wine glass in front of him and drink. 

He blinks and puts his glass down, feeling the slow slide into community action. “So often, bettering one’s community begs for their sole activities. And once that first step is made, the possibilities are endless.”

“That’s very true,” Jared responds softly then bites his lower lip before taking another sip.

Jensen clears his throat, feeling a thread of tension tug between them. He didn’t mean to say something so formal, so business-like, but he can’t say he’s not happy for the resulting smile across the table. “So, you’re obviously passionate about food deserts. Any other actions you’re behind?”

“Like you didn’t dig through my background to find out that I’m a liberal?” Jared jokes.

“Of course we did,” Jensen says dryly before taking a sip of wine. “I just wanted to hear it from you.”

“Did you really?” he asks with wide eyes.

With a chuckle, Jensen puts his glass down, sets his hands at the table, and leans forward a little. “I have to admit that there were quite a few in-depth reviews of your background, but it’s all standard procedure for White House access.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And you passed each one.”

“Oh! Good.”

He sits back and tries to put on a confident façade without seeming too pushy or smarmy. “Besides, I’d rather you just tell me about yourself.”

Jared swallows thickly, his throat muscles working through it and definitely catching Jensen’s attention. “Like what?”

“Like what else you do besides rebuilding food opportunities and father-daughter relationships with the power of a floral arrangement.”

“To be honest, not much else. I mean, I keep an eye on the LGBT activities in the area, but nothing more really comes up. I figure being a gay florist is more than enough.”

Jensen smiles, and somehow it surprises him how authentic it feels, like he is truly amused by Jared and not just putting on his diplomatic charm. It certainly is a new feeling. “That’s probably far more than needed. After all, you totally won Nola over.”

“Well, flowers really _are_ the way to a woman’s heart. You just have to find the right ones.”

Not long after they’ve finished the fish, started on a third glass of wine, and prepared for dessert, the side door connecting the study opens and Jared is bounced back into real life where he’s just Joe Schmoe and the guy sitting across from him is influential enough to have been elected President with 407 electoral votes.

There’s a tall man with messy hair and an equally messy beard directing orders to Jensen—the President—as to their next meeting along with phone calls that extend well past Jared’s bedtime. Jared remains in place and silent so as to convince himself—and them—that he’s not there.

The entire room falls silent, and Jared glances up at the President then the guest and realizes they’re both looking at him. The President, however, seems a bit perplexed before saying, ”Local Business Owner Meeting,” and Jared feels heart droop a foot or two in his chest.

Not to say he expected a real chance with a man this powerful and protected, but there was a long stretch of time where conversations floated well beyond civil service and brightening the future. It included childhoods down south with sweet tea and green, green grass, and laughing over an old sitcom Jensen was finally catching up on through Netflix.

He finally stands, shakes the President’s hand when it’s offered (trying like hell to not count how long their palms touch), and is escorted out by an agent posted outside the room. 

Once back in the front lobby, Jared is checking out with security, yet doesn’t make it to the door because his name is called, and the man who had interrupted dinner approaches him with a folded piece of paper. 

“For you, from him,” he says simply. There’s a small smile curling the line of the man’s moustache, but Jared can’t decipher if it’s amused or cynical.

Jared reaches for the paper, but doesn’t quite touch it yet. “For what?” 

“Don’t shoot. I’m only the messenger.”

The man drops the paper into Jared’s slightly open hand and heads back the way he arrived. 

Jared pockets the note until he’s outside and alone and able to have a proper reaction to the message without seeming improper in the White House.

In fine, neat letters: _Sorry for the abrupt ending. Let me make it up to you. Saturday 7pm._

Hope blooms in the center of his chest as his mind runs wild at the thought of seeing the President once again. Sure, the note is indefinite with its statement, no indication as to whether the President had enjoyed their lengthy conversation about food deserts and city markets, even cool tea on hot Texas nights and bright stars on black skies. Yet if it’s not that, and this is all simply a business meeting … Jared frowns at the thought. It’s disappointing to sit across the table and carry a healthy conversation with the most attractive man in the universe without anything returned, but Jared is feeling a bit confident in whatever position the President is seeking from him in relation to bettering their community.

He returns to his apartment, a decent two-bedroom that would probably be roomy for a man who doesn’t tower over most of D.C., where his oversized sectional couch is crowded up against the corner windows of his unit. He can easily spot Danneel camped among the fluffy back pillows. 

Which means he’s in for one massive info dump. Which he is so not in the mood for. He’d rather tip-toe this line of whatever the President wants from him. 

As soon as he’s in the door, she’s on her feet and squealing. “So? What happened?”

Jared scratches the back of his neck as he tosses his keys on the coffee table. “I don’t really know.”

Danneel stares at him for a few quiet moments. “What do you mean, you don’t really know? You were there.”

“I don’t really know,” he repeats with annoyance. “I mean, I almost desecrated the American Flag, and I think I ate with the wrong fork during the salad course, and I’m more than a little buzzed on Pinot, so …”

“Now I’m the one that doesn’t really know.” After they sigh in unison, she tips her head to the side and considers him with a gleam in her eyes. “Is he as dreamy in person as on TV?”

He rolls his eyes and turns away just so she doesn’t see his grin and blush. “Real mature.”

“It’s very mature to wonder what people look like in person. Is he shorter? Is he grayer?”

Jared does his best to keep his words even, not daring to err on the other side of wistfulness. But he hears it sink in. “No, he’s tall and completely blond and quite the conversationalist. He’s … yeah, he’s even better than on TV.”

Danneel releases a dreamy sigh. “Of course he is. What did he want? Was he taking an early census? Or offering you a seat next to him at the next town hall debate or something?”

“All of the above?” he offers. 

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, we talked a lot about the food markets and our business. And that was it. Maybe he just wants someone to inform him of what’s really happening in the city?” He shrugs then hands her the note. “And before I left, some guy gave me this.”

“What guy?” she asks as she opens it up, but she doesn’t get an answer because she’s suddenly shoving at Jared and yelling, “Oh, get out!”

Jared stumbles further back to avoid another shot and rubs at his chest. “This is my apartment. You get out.”

“Did you guys make out? Tell me!” she squeals as she shoves him again.

Jared makes a face, because while he certainly would not have minded it, there was nothing close to that occurring over dinner. And now he’s pathetically, stupidly, and irrationally disappointed in the whole evening. He can even hear it in his voice when he insists, “No, I told you …”

  


 

“… Local Business—”

“Owner Meeting,” Tim supplies. “Yes, of course.”

Jensen unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down behind his desk. He puts on his reading glasses then scowls over the top of the frames. “You don’t believe me.”

“Did I say I don’t believe you?”

“No.” After a beat, “But your beard looks skeptical at the moment.”

Tim finger-combs the very edges of his facial hair. “It’s the humidity. I never did like springtime on the coast.”

Jensen finally smiles at his Chief of Staff then nods when Katie enters along with Admiral Jeffrey Morgan and a few of his officers. The group gathers in front of Jensen’s desk, all standing at attention, even when Katie and Tim have never spent a second in a uniform. “So what have we got?” 

“A couple of nervous Balkans prepared to line the Black Sea with every piece of armor they have on hand,” Morgan says.

“Lining the Black Sea? That’ll take more than a couple to pull off,” Jensen points out.

“They’re an enthusiastic bunch.”

“That doesn’t really help matters, now does it?” Jensen rises and moves to the couches and table in the center of the Oval Office, grateful when everyone parts for him then takes a seat. Morgan spreads a map of Europe across the large coffee table, and Jensen sits at the edge of the couch cushions to watch Morgan’s finger trace lines along the Black Sea as he details the ships that are pulling together around Varna and a few within Red Lake.

A few of Morgan’s direct reports describe the channels the ships can take to enter the sea, but all Jensen thinks about are farmers markets and daisies.

There are another three security checks when Jared returns to the White House on Saturday, and just as before, he can feel the same nerves rattle as the guards carefully swipe nearly every inch of his body.

There is the same rumble to his empty stomach—more in nausea than in hunger—when he’s accompanied to the Dining Room and welcomed by Felipe, who is once again dressed to restaurant perfection. 

“Monsieur,” Felipe says, rather brightly. “It is a pleasure to seat you once again.”

“Thank you,” Jared returns with a friendly smile then chuckles (mostly to hide the annoyance and disappointment that they are the only two in the room). “Will I be dining solo this evening?”

“Of course not, Sir.” He effortlessly pours Jared a glass of wine then fills the empty one across the way, even when there is no one there to drink it. “He will be along shortly.”

Jared is left alone with his wine glass, though he can sense Felipe’s presence behind him and to the left, draped in shadows. 

Time drags on, and Jared is nearly done with his wine when Felipe steps up to refill it and the side door opens. Just like last time, Jared watches Jensen’s profile as he ties up loose ends with staffers, calling out times and cities Jared would never want to mix up. 

It’s massively overwhelming to realize that someone from the same background Jared was afforded—warm summers in Texas with tea and water balloons to keep children cool and dusk-lit barbeques—is now responsible for maintaining (and sometimes creating) peace for all of human kind.

Jared quickly downs the rest of his wine then holds the glass up for Felipe. They share an odd smile, one that Jared feels is more anxious for alcohol yet seems placating from the other end, then Jared turns back to the table to find Jensen seated across from him.

“I’m _so sorry_ ,” Jensen rushes to say. “I swear, I intended to be here on time this evening.”

“I imagine you don’t get to many places on time,” Jared jokes before starting in on his second glass.

“Not often, but Tim and Felicia sure do try to keep me moving.” Jensen takes a quick sip of his own wine then offers Jared a strangely comfortable and warm smile. “What do you think of blackened catfish for tonight?”

“I suppose it depends on the sides,” he leads on. 

“Maybe some dirty rice? Sweet potatoes? And you can’t miss out on Chef Williams’ jalapeño cornbread.”

It’s obvious that Jensen is pleased that Jared’s face lights up and his stomach grumbles aloud. 

“I can already tell you’re a fan.” Jensen lifts his glass, his warm smile doing worse things to Jared’s empty stomach than the wine. “To Texas,” he toasts, and Jared is quick to return it.

  


 

Jensen can read the disappointment on Jared’s face when Katie interrupts them before the cornbread has been truly appreciated.

“I thought we had you on a clean diet,” she admonishes.

He feels his cheeks heat up with embarrassment, both for her mothering him and for it happening in front of Jared. There’s a heavy weight on his chest when he feels the tension coming from the other side of the table as Jared pulls the napkin from his lap to set it over his unfinished plate. “Jared, it’s okay,” he insists then tells Katie, “I just need twenty more minutes.”

Katie checks a pad of paper stacked on top of a handful of colored files and snorts. “Your Local Business Owner symposium was only scheduled until 8pm.” She glances at Jared, takes time to look at him from top to bottom, and Jensen is even more unnerved. “And should have included more than just one.”

“A symposium does include two,” Jensen snarks back.

Jensen knows he’s Katie’s boss, and most importantly the _President_ , so he can stand up to her for any matter or need, especially when it comes to his personal life. However, he’d completely lied to Felicia when setting this dinner in his schedule and he feels the need to hide away Jared as a secret. And while he wouldn’t be afraid to stand beside him, he’s all too afraid of his staff’s responses to his attempts at dating again.

Never mind courting and small talk, Katie, Tim, and Richard would head up the vetting committee and stop at nothing to ensure Jared was the most perfect fit. Including turning Jared’s life over and combing through it with fine-tipped tweezers, then scheduling the best opportunity for Jared to be presented to the American people, starting with a makeover, capped teeth, and a brand new job. 

Not that Jensen finds anything wrong with the floral industry. He rather likes Jared just as he is, and would prefer to get to know him on his own time.

Still, he has a hard time maintaining that stance when Jared rises from his seat, thanks him for the dinner and conversation, and goes for the door. In the hallway, Whitfield is there to see Jared out of the White House, and it only frustrates Jensen even more. 

“You know,” Jensen huffs as he tosses his napkin onto the table. “I was in the middle of something here.” 

“As are we,” Katie insists, cocking her hips to the side. “The Romanian Prime Minister is on the line.”

He pushes his chair back quite abruptly and marches through the Study and into the Oval Office, only more aggravated that she’s following and chattering on about what to speak with Prime Minister Monta about. Maybe he’s more frustrated with himself for this lifestyle being so incompatible with dating Jared, or maybe he’s twice as annoyed with Jared for seeming to keep himself at arm’s length and stepping away every time there’s a blip in dinner. 

Either way, he knows that there are other, heavier concerns on the horizon, so he takes his seat behind the desk and punches buttons on his phone before saying, “Mr. Prime Minister, let’s talk about your boats.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing here,” Jared murmurs to himself for at least the fifth time. He isn’t bothering to count anything (he did note there were four benches down this hallway, two paired up about forty feet apart, set back to back), though he hasn’t been waiting all too long. It’s still late to be called upon and to wait and wait and wait.

For the President, once again.

In the Center Hall of the White House Residence.

Right where the President sleeps. In between signing laws and holding conference calls with foreign dignitaries and, like, keeping America afloat.

“God, what am I doing here?” he mumbles while running both hands through his hair and surely messing up the style he’d tried so hard to set before leaving his apartment and totally freaking out about _meeting the President in the Residence._

“What’re you doing here?” 

It’s said behind him, and as he wheels around to face the voice, he sighs. “I really don’t know.” 

Then he looks down because there is a young girl about ten feet away staring up at him. She has dark, dark hair that falls in waves far past her shoulders, and cat-eye glasses, paired with her blue tank top, accentuate the bright blue of her eyes. To match her frames, cartoonish kittens wrestle all over her light grey pajama pants. She’s half adorable and all the way threatening as she narrows her eyes and continues to watch him. 

He tries to remind himself that it must be past her bedtime, and thus she isn’t a threat, but it isn’t really working. Because this is young Nola, the President’s daughter, who hasn’t been seen since December for the White House Christmas ceremony. Jared briefly wonders if it’s because of the color of her hair, which had formerly been a shiny pale auburn, and then shakes his head at how foolish it is to wonder. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks again, now setting her hands at her hips. She barely replicates the intimidating stance that Whitfield took upon Jared’s quick exit last week. Somehow, it’s still scary.

Jared releases a soft, nervous laugh. “I wish I knew.”

“Where’s Aldis?” she asks while looking around Jared and back behind her into the next hallway. When Jared looks at her in confusion, she sighs, like an adorably petulant pre-teen, and raises her hand as high as she go while up on her tiptoes. “He’s the big guy in the black suit. Super tall, though not as tall as you.”

“I get that a lot,” he replies only halfway kidding. 

“Hodge. Aldis Hodge. Where is he?”

Jared breathes a sigh of relief. He never knew Hodge’s first name. “Aldis led me up here, but then said your dad would be with me soon.”

“For what?”

Jared shrugs, mostly to himself, because he has no clue what is really going on, only that he was summoned here when Aldis approached him at the shop just before closing. “I think businessy type stuff?”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“Flowers.”

Suddenly, her brow line eases from that of an inquisitor to a friendly, curious type. “Oh, really? Daddy got me some really cool blue flowers a few weeks ago.”

“Gerbera Daisies,” he replies with a quick nod.

Once again, the brow line furrows and her eyes narrow threateningly. “How do you know that?”

Jared clears his throat and tries to relax his stance as much as possible. He’s sure he still seems incredibly menacing at this height. “Because I sold them to him.”

“What’s the name of your shop?” she quizzes.

“Padalillies.” When she still appears wary, he explains how it fits with his last name and his aunt’s favorite flower. 

She’s satisfied enough that she steps forward and puts her hand into the air. “That’s pretty cool. The name’s Nola. My birth mom was from New Orleans, Louisiana.”

Jared smiles and shakes her hand with a friendly bow of his head. “N-O-L-A … I did not know that. But I totally love it.” They stare at one another for a moment and Jared jumps for the first thing he can grab onto for conversation. “I really love your glasses.”

“All the thanks go to Felicia. She helped me pick them out.”

“Felicia?” Jared asks then points over his shoulder as if he could even see the Oval Office from here. “Your dad’s assistant?”

“Yeah, she’s new, and totally cool, so I enlisted her to hang with me when dad’s off in Madagascar or Finland or wherever he’s going next.”

Jared smiles at how easy they’re conversing, and figures it’s a good passing of time until … whatever he is here for begins. 

“And she dyed my hair for me, which totally freaked out my dad.” Nola smirks then tweaks the edge of her frames. “But he said he really digs the glasses.”

“As he should. They’re pretty killer.”

“You should get some for yourself.”

Jared purposely overdoes his confidence and rocks on his heels as he brags, “Never needed them. Twenty-twenty right here, dude.”

“Ahh, just you wait,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “You start getting old and you need all the help you can get.”

He’s not about to admit that he’s in his mid-forties, and thankfully Nola doesn’t seem to care, because she continues on.

“Just like my dad. He turned forty-five, got into the White House, and now he’s blind as a bat.”

“Hey!” Jensen yells as he turns a corner behind Nola and marches up to them. “I heard that, young lady.” He’s free of a jacket and tie, and his white button-up is a bit wrinkled with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s probably as casual as he really gets while on the clock, yet Jared finds it terribly delicious. 

Jensen wastes no time scooping his daughter over his shoulder and playfully smacking the back of her thigh. There’s an adorably easy moment unfolding before him as Jensen bops her on his shoulder and she tries to curl around his back to rest her arms on the other shoulder with hair falling in her face every time either one of them moves. They’re talking about Algebra and Latin American History and something about practice ACTs, which … at her age, sounds ridiculous. 

“I got a 34 in Math,” Nola is saying as Jared simply soaks in the scene, “and Felicia said she never scored higher than a 33, even when she was a junior. I’d say I’m ready.”

Jensen makes a disbelieving face to Jared then laughs with a huff and quick jostle to Nola still draped across his back. “I don’t get you, with your kitty PJs and Star Wars nightlight, wanting to go off to college so soon.”

“Oh, college?” Jared asks with a bit of a playful whine. “No, Nola, don’t do it.”

Now Nola and Jensen freeze to stare at Jared, as if their joke radar just turned off. 

“Like at all?” Nola asks. 

Jared slowly responds, “I meant for now.” 

“Yeah, you listen to the man.,” Jensen says firmly then winks at Jared. “Because you certainly don’t listen to me when I say homework then bedtime.”

“I was just interviewing the super huge guy Aldis left in the hallway,” Nola quickly defends. 

“Did he pass your test?”

“He’ll do,” she says flatly, yet smiles at Jared. 

Jensen rolls his eyes and hefts Nola up higher on his shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take a bratty girl to bed now. I’ll be right back.”

He isn’t gone long, and Jared is feeling anxious once again, yet for an entirely different reason. The way Jensen had eased up so much him, playing with his daughter and even releasing that deadly wink is something that will stay with Jared for a while.

What is also going to stay with Jared is that when Jensen returns and Jared is trying to tell Jensen how wonderful his daughter is, Jensen latches one hand around Jared’s neck and tugs down. Jensen’s other arm wraps around Jared’s waist to pull him in all while Jensen is practically shoving his mouth against Jared’s.

Not that he minds. He’s just … a bit startled and shocked still, and so Jensen slowly detangles himself from Jared and wipes his lower lip, which is a strangely sexy move that draws Jared’s eyes to Jensen’s mouth even as Jensen is attempting to speak.

“… so stupid. Don’t know what I was thinking, but I just—”

“Wait a second,” Jared says, quite breathily in fact. Jensen, the President, and one of the country’s most attractive men, just kissed him. And Jared stupidly didn’t bother returning the favor. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry. It was out of line and so inappropriate and unbecoming.”

Jared slowly smiles at Jensen’s own nerves, which perfectly counter and defeat the ones Jared has been carrying ever since Jensen first walked into his store a few weeks ago. Jared finally feels like they’re on equal footing … well, as equal as he can be with the Commander-in-Charge. “Now you’re just saying a bunch of words that all mean the same thing.”

“And I understand your reticence,” Jensen goes on. “I keep inviting you here under the pretense of a Local Business Owners group then waste your time because I’m always running late, and then we’re interrupted by my staff, so we can’t get anywhere, and then I just _leap_ at you.”

Jared finds Jensen’s confession entirely too charming, especially with his overactive hand movements for jumping off a cliff. “Jensen,” he says calmly.

Jensen slowly lifts his head with wide, uncertain eyes. “Yes?”

He can’t bother to answer and is now the one pulling Jensen in with hands sliding over the sides of his neck, and Jared’s mouth is even more impatient against Jensen’s than his was just moments ago. Jensen sucks in a loud breath through his nose. Even as he grabs hold of Jared’s forearms to keep him close, he pulls back a few inches. 

“So,” Jensen says without any noticeable inflection, “I suppose this okay with you.”

Jared nods. “Really okay.”

Moments later, Jensen is shoving Jared down to the nearest bench and they’re grabbing at one another with loud, messy kissing that couldn’t be more imperfect while being remarkably hot. Their tongues are at war with one another, and Jared swears he can taste banana. He wants to ask about that, but when Jensen tips his head another way to reach further into Jared’s mouth, Jared focuses on other things. Like running his hands over Jensen’s back then daring to reach lower when Jensen’s arm slips between the bench and Jared’s back to close off any bit of space between them. Jared’s fingers inch over the curve of Jensen’s ass and Jensen moans into Jared’s mouth, so Jared palms Jensen’s asscheek while wrapping his free arm tightly around Jensen’s waist. 

As Jared tries to shift even closer, now feeling the erection growing in Jensen’s pants dig into his hip—and how in the world did Jared not anticipate how deeply that would make him groan—they both turn to the side and quickly roll off the bench and onto the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Nola asks from down the hall, just outside her bedroom. It’s far beyond where they are now, but possibly close enough to have seen something.

Jensen turns over to his knees and waves her off. “We’re just looking for Jared’s contact.”

“Jared doesn’t wear contacts.”

Jared and Jensen immediately match nervous gazes, with Jared finally, sadly shrugging. “I don’t.”

“He doesn’t,” Nola calls out. “He told me ten minutes ago that he has perfect vision. Twenty-twenty.”

“I did,” Jared admits quietly. 

“Well?”

Jared shrinks down a few inches and figures he’ll let her father handle this one. He is fairly powerful and all that. And Jensen does take care of the situation by rising to his full height and marching back down to her and announcing that it is far past her bedtime and she should be polite to her guests, and most of all respect her father or else he’ll send her to Alcatraz.

She rightfully laughs. _At_ him, Jared notes, not _with_ him. 

He’s waiting on Jensen once again, but this time he doesn’t mind. The shake in his bones is completely different and thrilling.

  


 

The next few weeks fly by in too intense of a rush. It gets so bad that Sarah Mason and her band of merry madmen have called for Jensen to step down. This time it’s for his failure in international policies, because the thing with Russia isn’t going well. Meanwhile, Katie keeps hassling him for referring to Putin’s tyranny and occupation of other countries as ‘a thing.’

As the Republicans gear up for the Presidential campaign, Congressman Fred Lehne circulates dirty talk about Jensen’s inability to create relationships beyond a young daughter who stays at home and out of the limelight (which Jensen always declared was better for her character and personality). Apparently, according to the congressman, this makes him a poor leader for the country because he supposedly lacks morals from the fact that he’s a single father. Putin still refuses to have a conversation concerning Ukraine and potential threats on Bulgaria and Turkey. And Fox News recently showed a rally in his hometown where former supporters burned the constitution in effigy, and his mother called the next morning to ask when he stopped taking his anti-anxiety meds. He insisted he was never on any, and she said she would talk to Tim.

All in all, not a good run.

And he’s once again keeping Jared waiting as he tries to listen to Admiral Morgan update him on the placement of Romania’s ships on the west side of the Black Sea. Once the conversation’s wrapped up as another ‘wait and see’ operation, Katie rushes in with Richard on her heels. 

Tim nods at them both then aims a grave look at Jensen, who would rather ignore whatever they’re about to set on his plate when he’s left Jared at his own plate upstairs in the Residence.

“Not now, I have a meeting,” he insists.

“What meeting?” Tim asks. 

Before Jensen can ask, Katie says, “Felicia has you done in the Oval.”

“Which means you’re ours for the next three hours,” Richard adds in with a sly head tilt. “So we can finally settle this Lehne issue you’re dodging.”

Jensen goes to his desk and fiddles “I’m not dodging anything. I just refuse to count it as a real concern.”

“It is a real concern, sir,” Katie insists.

Richard steps up beside Katie and they both cross their arms. “A very real concern.”

“First of all,” Jensen says quite sternly, “Felicia says I’m done in the _Oval_ , but I have plans back in the Residence.”

“What kind of plans?”

Jensen eyes each of them, spending extra time on Tim with the overly suspicious beard. A few hairs twitch and Jensen thinks Tim is smirking at him, and most definitely mocking him for waiting so long to answer. “Personal plans.”

“What kind of personal plans?” Richard asks.

“Yeah, you don’t have a personal life,” Katie adds.

“You’re the President.”

“I have personal plans!” Jensen complains. “I have a personal life and tonight, I have personal plans.”

“With who?” Tim asks with that same bearded, sly smile.

“With my daughter, okay?” he settles on. It’s not exactly wrong; he does intend to say good night to her, whether she’s still awake or not. “I haven’t seen her much lately and I’d like to read her a story before bed.”

“What story?”

Now Jensen glares at Tim, narrows his eyes, and clenches his jaw. He aims a firm, pointed finger at each of them, going back to Tim’s beard before making his way out the side door and onto the veranda.

Welling walks alongside him with his shoulders straight and his head held high, but somehow Jensen senses a bit of judgment there. The agent had been standing just outside the door and possibly could have heard the conversation. He’s certainly been privy to dozens of other conversations much higher on the security ladder, yet somehow Jensen holds this one pretty close to the vest. 

When they reach the door to the residence, Jensen stops and faces Welling. “You think it’s weird don’t you?” Jensen asks quietly, carefully, as if he can pull the question right back. As if Welling might not hear him, and they can play the whole thing off as mumbles of an overly stressed man. 

“That you’re hiding him away in the Residence?”

“I’m not hiding him,” Jensen insists then sighs. “And that’s a yes.” Welling simply nods in return and Jensen bows his head in his own sense of guilt as he enters the building. 

He does say good night to Nola, and he does spend a few minutes reading a journal entry in the newest book she can’t put down. Once the words sink in, he pulls the book closed to read _Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter_ on the front cover and eye her. 

“What?” she asks, blinking her perfectly blue eyes and charming him right out of his mortification. “It’s educational, about the White House and our eleventh president.”

“Sixteenth.”

“I know, I was just testing you.”

Jensen lifts an eyebrow. “And how is your American History class going?”

“I’m at 98 percent,” Nola insists.

He taps the tip of her nose. “That’s where the two percent is, presidential history. Which is a personal affront, you know?” She rolls her eyes and he runs a hand over her fading hair. It’s now an odd brown-purple-grey tone with her bright auburn roots coming in. “I’m sorry I’m not around more.”

“You’re around enough.”

“Not really,” he admits before kissing her forehead. “But I’m gonna try more.”

“In between Jared?” It sounds partway sad, but he’s not sure if she’s feeling that way for Jared or herself. “He looks really handsome tonight.”

Jensen lifts an eyebrow in a highly cynical look. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really. So you shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer.”

A quick shock of pain runs through his stomach and he thinks back to the day he and Tahmoh brought her home and stood in her nursery, leaning their arms on the side of the crib. They’d watched her sleep while they leaned against one another and promised to love her, and each other, forever. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “I still love your dad. I always will.”

She softly smiles and turns against his side to cuddle. “Me, too.”

Jensen squeezes her against him and tugs even tighter when she whispers that Jared’s pretty neat, too.

He lets her get back to the dreaded book, only shooting her one more dubious look before leaving, then heads to the West Sitting Hall. He stands outside the dining room for a few moments to watch Jared talk to Felipe, who’s pouring them each a glass of wine. Jared’s laughing at something Felipe has said under his breath, low enough Jensen can’t hear, but he smiles at the picture of Jared in a navy blue shirt, collar open to reveal a finely tanned neck. 

Jensen briefly considers taking Jared on a tour of the whole floor, especially his bedroom, but then his stomach rumbles and he remembers he last had a frosted blueberry muffin around two. 

Nola would kill him for that, but she’d probably appreciate the menu set around Grecian chicken with a light falafel spread and homemade pita bread. He can’t go out and take Jared to D.C.’s finest restaurants (without a lot of fanfare), so he’ll bring the food to Jared.

As the vision of dinner coasts through his mind, Jared looks up and smiles at him. Jensen immediately smiles back and enters the room, pulling his chair out. Before he sits, he glances at Felipe who is kindly smiling back and moves around the side of the table to touch Jared’s back and lean down to kiss him hello. Their lips are warm and tongues hesitant, and Jensen’s hand settles on the back of Jared’s head. He squeezes softly around the column of Jared’s neck and then rubs his nose gently against Jared’s when he pulls back. 

Jared’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes slant away as if he’s embarrassed. It hadn’t been particularly heated or long, yet Jared still seems a bit dazed when Jensen settles down in his own seat. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Jensen says as he sets his napkin in his lap.

“It’s okay.”

“I promise to be on time for you at least once. Soon.”

Jared picks up his wine to drink, stalling with the rim of the glass resting on his lips. “Well, if you’re going to arrive with that kind of a hello, I’m happy to wait.”

Jensen winks and takes a long sip of his own wine then asks Jared about his day.

When Jared returns from a late dinner with Aunt Sam, he’s too distracted to notice the black limousine parked in front of his building until he realizes there are two secret service agents up on the front porch flanking the door.

He stops at the foot of the steps and spots another few agents up and down the sidewalk in either direction. His palms begin to sweat and his mind races because these aren’t agents he’s seen before … and after nearly four weeks of spending time … seeing? … dating? … Jensen, Jared has seen his fair share of men in black. 

His mind reels for brand new reasons as he imagines any one of Jensen’s footmen—maybe the chief of staff or the communications director, hell, even the head of the CIA—showing up at his place to head off his association with the President of the United States. 

Jared wouldn’t be all that shocked; worse things happen in the movies, often based on true stories.

The agents don’t budge when Jared takes the first step, so he boldly takes two more, and another two, until he’s in the lobby of his building and finds another two agents outside the door to his apartment.

“Is there a problem?” he asks as evenly as possible.

“No, sir,” the one on the right says, and then turns the knob on Jared’s door and pushes it open for Jared to go on in. 

He slowly enters as he combs for anything out of place, but most of the lights are still out, like he left them this morning. Nothing seems out of place, though a sudden voice makes him jump.

“It’s nice in here. Comfy.”

“ _Jesus_!” Jared shouts then flinches when the agents at the door step inside his apartment. 

Jensen holds a hand up and tells the men, “Stand down. No fuss here.” He adds, “And get the door,” once they’re back in the hallway.

“You scared the crap out of me!” Jared yells, a bit quieter, yet still forceful. Jensen simply smiles and takes a seat in the corner of the sectional couch. “Why are you here? And why is there a detail hovering around my place?”

“I can’t really get around on my own, you know.”

Jared sighs at how casual Jensen sounds, even when he’s beginning to feel a light quiver of excitement that Jensen has shown up _at Jared’s_ , instead of summoning Jared to the White House whenever and however. 

(Email, text, phone, even a messenger service has hailed Jared. If Jensen hadn’t been working hard on courting Jared once in his presence, Jared would begin to question if he’s more than just a Presidential booty call. Which is definitely not a title Jared ever imagined on his resume.)

“But you’re here …” Jared sits at the edge of a cushion next to Jensen, turns to face him, and keeps his hands clutched together in his lap. There is enough firepower outside to take him out for one stray touch. “In _my_ place?”

Jensen smirks. “Glad I didn’t get the address wrong.”

“How did you get inside?”

Now he tips his head with drawn eyebrows, a whole _come on_ vibe growing strong. “I’ve got the NSA on speed dial. You think I can’t manage getting past a couple of deadbolts?”

Jared finally relaxes and leans back into the cushions, and he feels further comfort in Jensen’s arm lifting up and around Jared’s shoulders. “I was afraid you’d sent the CIA to kill me instead.”

Through a small chuckle, Jensen tilts Jared’s head closer and kisses him tenderly. It’s happened more than enough times, but having it happen here, in Jared’s home, feels even more surreal than having dinner in the Residence. “I would never,” he softly insists when he pulls back. Then he nudges Jared’s shoulder. “How was work?”

Jared shrugs, frowns. There’s a lot weighing on him, but he’s not sure it’s something to really share with Jensen (who will always be the President to Jared, no matter what happens between them when they’re alone). 

“Tell me,” Jensen murmurs. 

It takes time to formulate an answer. Aunt Sam discussed selling the business, and Jared suggested buying it himself. It’s a huge decision either way and he doesn’t want Jensen influencing him. “I don’t wanna worry about that right now.”

“Okay, then what do you want to do?” Jensen asks so casually that Jared is shocked that Jensen’s letting it go.

“Uh …”

“Watch TV?”

Jared shrugs and grabs the remote, settling closer to Jensen on the couch. “Sure, what do you want to watch?”

Jensen chuckles. “I don’t really know what’s on this time of night.”

“Or ever?” Jared jokes.

“I know when Meet the Press is on, and when Sarah Mason appears on Fox Friends & Family to light my ass.”

“Which is all terrible, all around.”

Jensen smirks as he combs some hair away from Jared’s face. “Preaching to the choir here.”

Jared flinches at the tickle each touch brings about and even shifts to the side. “Stop, that—”

“Tickles?” Jensen asks in a soft, warm voice.

It does, but he insists, “No, it’s distracting.”

Jensen runs his finger around the shell of Jared’s ear, eyes watching the movement the whole time, which seems even more distracting than before. “Distracting you from what?”

Jared moves a full cushion over and blurts out, “You have a dozen guys outside and you’re finally going to seduce me?” When the words register to his ears, he slaps a hand over his mouth and closes his eyes in horror and shame. 

Jensen shuffles next to Jared again, dipping to look up at Jared’s bowed head. “Do you want me to seduce you?”

He opens one eye, thankful Jensen seems terribly amused rather than confused or annoyed. “Like I’d say no to that?” They chuckle together, but Jared holds firm to his seat when Jensen tries to pull him forward. “But, again, there are like 15 agents outside, not to mention right there, behind that door.”

“They’re there to protect me, Jared. Not listen in on anything.”

Jared knows that, it makes perfect sense; however, he can’t get his mind past the idea that the Secret Service will soon find out what they sound like the first time they make love.

… Make love. 

That stalls Jared. Stalls him hard. 

It’s been two months of seeing one another and Jared would like to consider it dating, as each evening progresses beyond the one before. They’ve had long conversations about their youth, education, even Jensen’s late husband and Jared’s intentions to own his own shop someday. There’ve been an uncountable number of kisses at the beginning of dinner, at the end, just before being interrupted by any number of Jensen’s staff. Every evening they’ve seen one another has been crashed by a very important meeting, phone call, or press release to rake through … 

And here they are finally alone without interruption. Jared’s head immediately spins, worse when he tries to stand and collect his thoughts. 

Jensen rises and stands before him, and now Jared can aptly see beneath the smooth, professional armor of America’s most well-known politician, and detect the vulnerability of a man Jared could have met anywhere in the world. 

“I’m sorry,” Jensen says quickly, determined, so unlike the helpless way he shifts in all kinds of directions. “This was ridiculous, and I didn’t mean to assume anything, or push you into something that—”

Just like the third dinner, when Jared learned he had to take charge to show his true feelings, he pulls Jensen in with hands framing his face, and takes over his mouth. It’s quick and frantic at first then mellows out to something more intimate and imploring.

Continuing to show Jensen how he feels, rather than telling, he slides his hands up beneath Jensen’s coat, moving over his ribs then back down to his hips. He moves around to Jensen’s back and drags his hands up and down before tugging Jensen along to the bedroom in the furthest corner of the apartment. 

Without switching on any lights, they undress in between deep, wet, sucking kisses, and before long, they’re both naked on the wide mattress. Jensen leans over Jared, brushes errant bangs away from his forehead, while Jared runs his hand up and down Jensen’s arm that’s resting across Jared’s chest. 

Slowly, Jensen’s lips tip up in a soft smile and Jared returns it. He thinks he reads a lot in Jensen’s wide eyes and the slight tilt of his mouth, but he doesn’t question it right now. Not when Jensen is leaning forward to trail a path down Jared’s chest with his wet, plump lips. Jared arches into the kisses and cups the back of Jensen’s head, guiding but not forcing, as Jensen licks a stripe up the length of Jared’s already extremely hard dick. He taunts and tempts Jared for far too long with just long runs of his tongue from the base to the tip, closing his eyes and letting out tiny noises of ecstasy that drive Jared crazy enough to twist the bedsheets in his hands and stretch his body as far as possible in trying to maintain some restraint. 

The last thing he wants to do is totally jump the President’s bones. 

Except, he is asked to do exactly that.

In more proper terms, sure, but Jared is just as rattled when Jensen quietly asks, “I want you … to take me … okay?”

Unfortunately Jared’s brain has already short-circuited, especially with the view of Jensen running his lower lip over the top of Jared’s hard-as-nails dick. “Take you where?”

Thankfully, Jensen laughs then comes up to Jared’s level for a smattering of kisses until he turns them over so Jared now rests over him. Jared’s brain shifts back into gear, and now he’s got this right where he wants it, along with Jensen’s dick, which is firm and warm and a nice weight in his palm. He strokes Jensen a few times, wrenches his wrist just right to hear Jensen whine and see him squirm. Moments later, he’s got lube and a condom out, and gets his fingers ready to open Jensen. 

It takes some time from there—more like, _Jared_ takes his time to get Jensen riled up and ready, but once he is, Jared takes even more time to slide himself in. Inch by inch. All the way to the base. He sets his palms to the mattress on either side of Jensen’s head and watches as Jensen’s eyes clench tight then slowly open to reveal arousal and hunger. Jared tests a few shallow thrusts and continues to watch Jensen’s pupils narrow then grow wide when Jared follows through, getting a bit deeper each time. 

As Jensen adjusts and widens his knees, Jared settles into an easy tempo and relishes every noise coming from Jensen’s mouth, every touch of the man’s hands on his body, and every single twitch and shiver he makes when Jared hits the right spot. Jared pushes in a bit further and grinds his hips into Jensen’s, drops himself so they’re touching from the shoulders on thighs, and weighs Jensen down so Jared has full control … just as Jensen pleads for him to take. 

Obviously, the man in control likes to relinquish that every now and again, and Jared smiles and kisses Jensen as he continues to slowly fuck him into another world. He’s glad to have some leverage here, happy to make Jensen blissful and sated, which happens much quicker than he had planned. Jensen, too, given the way his wide eyes now show fear and embarrassment once he’s quickly come between them with only one quick shout as warning. 

Jared chuckles then kisses Jensen again, and again, and again. And all while they separate to reposition on the bed and Jensen fists him to the end. 

After, Jared is tired, groggy, and a bit shell-shocked that this actually happened. Jensen doesn’t seem to be, for he settles comfortably along Jared’s side, shoulder tucked beneath Jared’s, head resting on Jared’s arm, and watching the same shifting shadows on the ceiling when cars pass under streetlamps outside. 

“I’m sorry,” Jensen says quietly. “It’s been a while.”

Jared thinks on it, searches for the appropriate reply, and ends up laughing and turning into Jensen. He buries his head right alongside Jensen’s, still snickering, and kisses Jensen’s ear. “Don’t even. It just boosts my ego.”

“Glad it worked out for you.”

Snuggling in closer, Jared slings his arm over Jensen’s chest, fingers just barely tapping along Jensen’s side. “It definitely did,” he murmurs before falling asleep completely satisfied.

  


 

Jensen stands in the East Sitting Halls, hands tucked into his pants’ pockets, and watches Nola stretch her arms out like a product model and tell Jared all about the Lincoln Bedroom.

“This was his actual bed,” she says before sitting on the mattress and bouncing up and down. 

Jared moves to the southeast wall and nods while looking at the painting of Lincoln hung just above the vanity. “You know, he was a pretty tall guy?” he asks her, but it sounds more like a joke than any real inquiry.

“Taller than you.”

“There aren’t many like that out there, you know?”

“That’s too bad.”

Jensen covers his mouth to stifle laughter and continues to watch Jared take in the whole room, including glancing out the golden-draped windows, flicking the edges of the plant in the corner, and running his fingers over the dark rosewood headboard. “Is it really haunted in here?”

Nola rolls over to her stomach to watch Jared. “I dunno. They keep saying to stay out of here at night, but I haven’t gotten any on tape yet.”

“You try to tape them?”

“A couple times. Daddy doesn’t know yet.”

Of course, Jensen finds this a particularly perfect time to interrupt, even if he’s grown to adore eavesdropping on Jared and Nola’s meet-ups. “Daddy knows now.”

Nola bolts upright and runs to him. “You’re home!”

He pulls her up into his arms, which is becoming a tougher feat each time. She’s growing like a weed, or maybe he just doesn’t see her enough to witness the growth spurts himself. He’s been gone for a week and a half now, traipsing up and down the eastern coast of South America, with a few days spent visiting teams at the World Cup. Diplomacy does have some perks, and he rather loved watching the professionals out on the field. 

But he never misses his daughter more than his time abroad, so he hugs the daylights out of her, ignoring her choked pleas to let her go. “Missed you, pumpkin.”

“Missed you, too,” she whispers at his ear.

He leans back to eye her. “It’s well past your bedtime, ain’t it?”

“I was just keeping Jared company.”

“Yeah, I heard.” He now takes in Jared, who’s gently smiling in return. “You did a great job of that.”

“She really did,” Jared agrees. 

“I’m glad to hear.” Jensen smiles at each of them then puts on a playful pout for his daughter. “But I think it’s about time you get put to bed.” He adds over her whining, “Of course, with another Abe the Vampire Slayer tale to get you right into dreamland.”

She relents on that, waving good night to Jared as Jensen walks them across the hall and to her bedroom. He reads her two entries tonight, on account of how closely she’s tucked up against him, fingers lightly scratching at the cotton of his _U.S. Air Force_ polo. He strokes her now mousy brown hair, whispers _I love yous_ in a variety of ways, then tucks her into bed and shuts off the lights.

He stays in the doorway and watches her for a few extra moments until she is completely engulfed in blankets and turned to her right, the way she’s slept ever since she was a young toddler. 

When he joins Jared in the Lincoln Bedroom, they’re both quiet even with Nola’s and the Lincoln door closed. 

As he closes the distance between them, Jared smiles and licks his lower lip. “So,” Jared asks, “all your duties are done for the day?”

“Almost done,” he murmurs, running his hands down Jared’s arms. He closes his hands around Jared’s hands then walks him towards the bed. “Presidential duties? Check. Daddy duties? Check. Taking care of the common man? Almost check.”

Jared nervously chuckles and sits at the edge of the mattress when Jensen bumps him up against it. Once Jensen is down on his knees and going for Jared’s belt and fly, Jared sucks in a quick breath and his eyes widen almost comically. “Seriously? In the Lincoln Bedroom?”

“Did you want to try another room? The Truman Balcony or the Treaty Room?” Jensen’s only partly joking; he does wonder if it really is going to be an issue for Jared to mess around in the White House … or maybe at all. Maybe that night at Jared’s was a one-time thing that won’t go anywhere else. 

“God, that sounds even worse,” Jared replies with a quick, loud breath. “I just thought it might be inappropriate?”

The way Jared’s voice rises makes Jensen laugh, and he goes on to rub Jared through his pants. In seconds, Jensen can feel Jared’s dick fattening up and getting some added length to it. “We’re in the White House. It’s all kind of inappropriate. Kennedy, Clinton, Roosevelt …”

“Which Roosevelt?” Jared asks around a sigh.

Jensen grins at how quickly Jared has gone from worried to blissed out. “Probably both.”

Jared’s hips slowly shift into Jensen’s hand, so Jensen increases the pressure, especially when Jared falls back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. “What if it really is haunted?” 

Jensen takes this as a sure sign to keep going, to give them another good night together, even when it’s tucked between his always-busy schedule. He pulls Jared’s zipper down, slips his hand inside, and watches Jared bite his bottom lip and shiver with every touch Jensen makes. “You keep an eye out for that, and I’ll take care of business here.”

A quick moan precedes Jared’s hips lifting up off the mattress. “It’s a deal.”

“So you’re at the magic number,” Danneel says as she steps up to Jared at the floral counter.

He’s spreading a few deep purple dahlias with lilacs and white carnations for a birthday arrangement. He narrows his eyes to the exact positioning of each flower, as well as at her comment. “Magic number for what?”

“For you and the Prez, for when you guys figure out if you’re just fucking around or really want to do something.”

“Danni,” he sighs and rolls his eyes, “how many times do I have to tell you? Watch your language around the children.”

“This child looks a little dull,” she replies, tugging a small carnation out of the vase. “But seriously. Three months is when it happens … when you decide if you’re gonna really give it a go.”

“Says the girl who sleeps with half our customers.”

She swats his shoulder. “Don’t shame me because I have a healthy appetite. When I meet a good guy, I’ll be good and ready to settle down.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jared winks at her to cut through the comment then stares at the flowers as he thinks over what she’s saying. “I don’t know what’s really going on,” he admits. “I mean, it’s not like I imagine us living together in the White House or anything.”

“But you would if he asked …”

Jared laughs. “Of course I would, dummy. It’s the White House.”

“And it’s the President of the United States,” she adds on.

“And … he’s pretty awesome, otherwise.” He finds himself aimlessly smiling while touching a number of petals, admiring his work and trying to see if there’s anything out of place in the arrangement. And maybe even in his relationship with Jensen. 

“You’re smitten,” Danneel sing-songs.

He scowls instantly and moves the vase out of his sight. “Am not.”

“You’re smitten like a kitten!”

Jared can see through the open window that a few customers have turned their way. Aunt Samantha even pops her head into the opening to shush them. 

“See,” he whispers, “now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“You love him,” Danneel quietly sings, “you want to marry him, and have his babies.”

Even as he shushes her up, he has to admit he goes on for a few hours with a warm smile.

  


 

“Send him on in,” Jensen tells Felicia and puts the phone down with a smile. 

Jared’s shown up at the front entrance on an impromptu visit … well, as impromptu as three security checks and a sit-down in the Roosevelt room can be. Maybe he’ll bring Jared into the Oval and check out the view of the garden or the massive eagle seal in the center of the room.

At the thought of having Jared in here, Jensen looks up to the center of the ceiling where he knows a tiny camera keeps an eye on the room, protecting and spying on him in equal measure.

He rises from his desk and buttons his suit jacket over his vest when he hears Katie’s outrageous shouting somewhere beyond the thick Oval Office walls, which tells him they’re all in great trouble. 

“He _what_?” she yells again, followed by heavy footsteps out in the main hall, drawing near to his office. “Tim, did you know about this? Did you, Dick? Did _anyone_? If this is true then we need to get out ahead of it and fast. Get him on film and present it right.”

He opens the door between the Oval and the Chief of Staff’s office and glares at Katie’s aggressive stance over Tim’s desk with her hands planted on the surface. “Is there a problem here?” he asks quite harshly. He knows they’re all a bit of a rag-tag bunch, but he’s always wanted to put on a professional front to the rest of the White House. 

Katie quickly stands at attention while Tim leans back in his chair and strokes his beard. “Go on, Katie, why don’t you ask the President yourself.”

When she remains quiet, biting into the corner of her cheek with anxiety, Jensen glances around the room and motions at Richard sitting on Tim’s leather couch. “Do you know what she’s going on about?”

Richard points back to Katie, and Jensen’s not up for any bullshit right now. 

“The next time you want to have a tantrum,” he insists, “I suggest you do it on your own time and in your own office, not steps away from mine.”

Katie opens her mouth to talk, but nothing comes out.

“Yes, Katie?”

“Nothing sir. I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah, you should be … acting like a lunatic.” He sighs and turns back to his office when she clears her throat.

“But, sir?”

He slowly turns around, shocked by the insistence covering any kind of humility in her prompt. He eyes her for a long, quiet moment to purposely unnerve her. “Yes, Ms. Cassidy?”

“My apologies, in advance,” Katie says slowly, as if building up the confidence to ask a real question. “But Thompson from the Cole Hart show has a lead on some personal information.”

He’s not sure if he should be bothered or bored of this conversation already. Cole Hart is a useless radio joke, and keeps Sarah Mason employed and on TV with her violent drivel. Thompson is almost as awful a reporter, except that he actually thinks he’s fighting the good fight with truth and kindness. “Are we supposed to be worried?” he asks with a laugh.

“He says you’ve been …”

The way Katie trails off and refuses to return his stern look aggravates him even more. “I’ve been what?” He glances at his Chief of Staff and his Head Policy Writer. “Anyone want to help her out? What does Thompson think I’ve been doing?”

Tim lifts his chin, lightly smirking behind the tufts of his overgrown beard. “He thinks you’ve been bedding someone.”

Jensen narrows his eyes to cover up the heavy thump in his chest and the swirling of his stomach. He thought he’d been smart about keeping Jared close, yet not too close, insisting on the Local Business Owners Symposium lie, scheduling their meet-ups later in the evenings and mostly at the Residence. But maybe not. 

“Excuse me?” Jensen asks after a long silence. 

Richard leans forward, and even with his head bowed he boldly says, “He thinks you’re screwing around—”

“Yeah, I get it!” Jensen yells to shut him up. “It’s just the most ridiculous thing to say.” He laughs to further ignore the shock filling his system. “If Thompson is publishing it in those words, then I’m not worried at all.”

Katie clears her throat. “Sir, he says he has sources close to the White House who have seen you two together.”

“Like who?”

She shrugs. “Anonymous sources. Ones who say you’ve had a man here for dinner and you’ve gone out to see him.”

Jensen bitterly laughs again. “You think I’m getting out of here without someone noticing? Wouldn’t it be much bigger news by now?”

“This could be a big deal,” Richard points out.

“I do not believe any of this shit,” Jensen announces. He rolls his eyes and returns to the Oval. They all follow him and he can feel the anxiety pooling right between his shoulders and lower back. “This is ridiculous. We’re not discussing it.”

“Sir, if there _is_ someone, we can get you two out there together.” Katie goes on with a softer approach, as if she’s ready to send out wedding invitations and hang hearts all around the White House. “We can get some pictures, a few interviews with him? We just need to set the tone that it’s not just screwing around, but play it like finding your next love.”

“No, absolutely not!” he barks while sifting through items on his desk to avoid the insistent stares of his staff. 

“Some strategically set dates won’t hurt,” Richard suggests. “A little wining and dining. Fake dating is better than no dating.”

“I’m not fake dating anyone!” he shouts and drops a file to his desk before glaring at them. “No dating of any kind.”

There’s movement, something brown then something red, from the corner of his eye and he prays for a great distraction from this topic. Standing in the doorway from the Secretary’s Office are Felicia and … Jared, who could have been here for the whole conversation or only the last statement of a President intent on keeping his personal life personal. 

He’s certain he sounded like a raving, heartless man who isn’t thinking of the man he’s spent the last few months with more often than not. Even in between staff meetings and briefings with Admiral Morgan and dedicating more time to reading with Nola, Jared’s still in his mind, and maybe in another place as well …

They stare at one another, and Jensen can’t find the words to explain what’s happening, or even to dismiss his staff and get about his day. 

“Uh, bad time,” Felicia mumbles then tugs Jared back into her office and shuts the door. 

Jensen watches the door for a few more moments, dying to figure out what he should be doing now … protect himself from his meddling staff, talk with Jared, pretend none of this has happened and that he has more important items on the docket. 

Slowly he turns to his staff, eying them one by one. No one says a word; it’s quiet enough, they can hear beyond the door, where Felicia tells Jared he can wait to see the President. Her gloomy apology for the mistake in schedules and a quick goodbye informs Jensen that Jared is not about to wait around.

Jensen grits his teeth, unbuttons his suit jacket, and takes a seat behind his desk. “What’s next?”

Jared ignores his phone for a few days, refuses to answer the one at the shop. The gladiolas Danneel brought him to arrange are anything but glad as he glares at them. At least, he likes to imagine the flowers feel his pain at this time.

But then he grumbles, not wanting to give Danneel the satisfaction of being right about that three-month rule. Apparently this was the time when Jared decided he was up for a cross-country trip and Jensen wanted off at the next stop.

He should’ve known better, really. Dating the President, making some kind of relationship with one of the most powerful men in the world, was dreaming big. And now Jared’s clouds are popped and he’s floating back down to reality. 

“Oh God,” Danneel sighs as she steps up to him. “Even the flowers look depressed. You’re contagious.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “Gee. Thanks.”

She hip-checks him out of the way, which is just as pathetic as Jared is feeling because he is literally twice her size. She shouldn’t be able to move him an inch, let alone a few feet away. “I’ll finish this. Why don’t you go up front or something?”

Now he frowns even deeper, and quite pitifully. “Aunt Sam said my sadness was driving customers away.”

Danneel laughs and teasingly sulks with him before trying to cheer him up with a bear hug. Again, she’s half his size and it can’t do much good. “It’ll be okay.” She rocks them from side to side then shakes him a bit. “It was fun while it lasted, right?”

“Yeah,” he admits with a small smile. “I know I’m overreacting, but it would’ve been nice to find out in a more private way rather than him yelling about it in front of everyone.”

“At least he didn’t come into the shop with his fiancée,” she jokes, reminding them both of Matt the hot trainer with a wandering eye. 

Jared nods then sees Danneel’s doing a much better job than him sprucing up the gladiolas, so he leaves her to it and joins Aunt Sam in the front of the store.

“Hey, sweetpea,” she says with a quick pinch to his side. 

He smiles at the childhood nickname, albeit woodenly, and rings up the next customer. Aunt Sam takes care of a very, very pregnant woman looking to brighten a soon-to-be-filled nursery, and Jared glances around the store when the bell over the door rings out. 

Aunt Sam brings the expecting mother to the counter for Jared to ring up, and he does with happy smiles and congratulations then, once she’s gone, his whole demeanor drops with a new customer standing in front of him. It’s Jensen. Jensen is the next customer. Jensen is standing right in front of him, looking much the same as the day they first met … running suit, ball cap, sweat streaking down his deliciously taut neck.

He removes his hat, leaving a mess of bed-head in its wake, and bites the corner of his lower lip. He remains silent, and Jared spots Aldis and Tom taking up opposite corners of the place, just like they did before. 

Jensen clears his throat and puts on a smile, his fake one, the one for the cameras and the general public. “I was wondering,” he starts softly then clears his throat, “if you could help me pick out some flowers. For a friend. A guy. I need flowers for this guy I know who I care about very much.”

Jared gulps, not believing this scene for even a second. He pinches the top of his hand, but he’s still standing in the shop, staring at Jensen.

Jensen’s smile turns softer and seems more honest. “But not roses. I’ve heard they’re really overused.”

He remembers telling Jensen that when trying to find something for Nola, for the President’s precocious daughter, for one of the smartest 12-year-olds Jared has ever met and wanted to get to know even better. Just like he really wanted to get to know Jensen better. 

Jensen bites his lower lip again. “Maybe you could recommend something to get my message across?”

Jared clears his throat, finally ready to talk. “And what message is that?”

Meeting Jared’s eyes, Jensen’s voice is low yet full of meaning when he says, “That I care about him very much. And that I’m sorry that he overheard a bad conversation. And that I really want to see him again, even if he refuses to answer my calls.”

Jared stares back at Jensen, searching for a flaw in that soft, determined plea. “But you said no dating.”

“I said no _fake_ dating,” Jensen clarifies. “I told my staff I didn’t want to fake date you, and parade you all over town just to detract from the Russia discussion. I didn’t want to satisfy Sarah Mason and Cole Hart, and his talentless writers, who all think they can peg me with some kind of controversy for actually trying to make my own life.”

The whole shop is silent, and Jared and Jensen continue look at one another until Jensen clarifies: “I don’t want to fake date you because I want to really date you.”

Jared’s chest tightens, worse than when he’d walked in on that conversation in the Oval Office and felt his good mood crushed and blown away with the wind. Because he now feels like he’s caught in a vise grip of going with what he has wanted the whole time he’s been around Jensen versus protecting himself from the whirlwind of attention if he actually says yes. 

“We already were,” Jensen points out. “Already dating, together, whatever you want to call it, and that’s it for me.”

Jared looks to Aldis and Tom, who are both quick to dodge his gaze. He chuckles to himself and takes a deep breath. 

“Well … ” Jared takes a deep breath and thinks. “Purple hyacinths are meant to express sorrow and regret.”

Slowly the line of worry across Jensen’s brow disappears and his lips turn up into a beautiful smile, and Jared finds himself smiling as well. “I’ll take ten dozen,” Jensen says brightly.

“And, you know … dinner wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll fly in any chef you want,” Jensen insists. “Wolfgang Puck, Gordon Ramsey, even Guy Fieri.”

“No, not the last one,” Jared says quickly.

Jensen quickly nods. “He’s already off the security list.”

Jared hears a light sigh to his right, and he finds Danneel and Aunt Sam leaning against the counter and holding hands, with wet eyes apiece. Danneel winks at him and he does so back before looking to Aldis in the far left corner. “And Hodge’s number.” When the bodyguards and Jensen all lose their happy smiles, Jared adds, “For Danneel. She deserves a good guy, too.”

Aldis’s eyes widen then and he smirks at Danneel. But Jared doesn’t notice because in one beautiful moment, Jensen’s smile turns truly transcendent with his cheeks going pink and crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. “You said _too_. A good guy, _too_.”

“Well, yeah,” Jared says airily, “I mean, you’re a guy, and you’re pretty good, and so—”

He’s cut off when Jensen tugs the middle of Jared’s apron and pulls him across the counter for a long-overdue reconciliation and a rather inappropriate kiss in front of Jared’s aunt, his friend, and the Secret Service. Jared feels the strength in Jensen’s apology and decides he’ll make out with his boyfriend all day long, any damn place he likes.

Even if his boyfriend is the President of the United States of America. 

_Especially_ if he is.


End file.
